The world evades us because it becomes itself again. That stage scenery masked by habit becomes again what it is.
The great novelists are philosophical novelists – that is, the contrary of thesis-writers.
The absurd depends as much on man as on the world. For the moment it is all that links them together.
Outside of that single fatality of death, everything, joy or happiness, is liberty.
No more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Man is always a prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them.
It is always easy to be logical. It is almost impossible to be logical to the bitter end.
Integrity has no need of rules.
If time frightens us, this is because it works out the problem and the solution comes afterward.
If the world were clear, art would not exist.
I draw from the absurd three consequences, which are my revolt, my freedom, and my passion.
I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I do not know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it.