Ha! to forget. How childish! I feel you in my bones. Your silence screams in my ears. You may nail your mouth shut, you may cut out your tongue, can you keep yourself from existing? Will you stop your...
Everything that burns, everything that rips me apart, I want to suffer with my body. I'd rather have a hundred wounds, whips, poisons - than this kind of suffering in the head, this phantom of sufferi...
Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance. I leaned back and closed my eyes. But the images, forewarned, immediately leaped up and filled my close...
Can you justify your existence then?
But I must finally realize that I am subject to these sudden transformations. The thing is that I rarely think; a crowd of small metamorphoses accumulate in me without my noticing it, and then, one fi...
All these creatures spend their time explaining, realizing happily that they agree with each other.
A madman's ravings are absurd in relation to the situation in which he finds himself, but not in relation to his madness.
Man is a useless passion.
How nice it is to know you are so profoundly happy, it's had me beaming all day.
میخواهید به شما بگویم چرا از مرگ نمیترسید؟ چون هرکدام از شما فکر میکند مرگ به سر دیگری نازل خواهد شد نه به سر خودش. در این جنگ همه کشته خواهند شد.
ليس هناك مستعمرون صالحون وأخرون طالحون، بل هناك مستعمرون فحسب
To do something is to create existence
You must be like me; you must suffer in rhythm.
Will you do me the honour of lunching with me on Wednesday? With pleasure. I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself.
What a torment it is not to be rich! It gets one into such abject situations.
Thing are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea.
The only difference between image and idea is thus that in the one case, the expression of the object is confused, and in the other, it is clear. The confusion comes from this: every movement envelops...
The Nausea has not left me and I don't believe it will leave me so soon; but I no longer have to bear it, it is no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I.
On meurt toujours trop tôt ou trop tard. Et cependant la vie est là, terminée: le trait est tiré, il faut faire la somme. Tu n'es rien d'autre que ta vie.
My eyes feel all soft, all soft as flesh. I'm going to sleep.