Jean-Paul Sartre Quotes

Much more likely you’ll hurt me. Still what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.

It’s strange. I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.

One could only damage oneself through the harm one did to others. One could never get directly at oneself.

انسان خلاصه ای از آنچه داشته نیست بلکه خلاصه ای است از آنچه هنوز به آن نرسیده خلاصه ای از آنچه میتواند داشته باشد

People are like dice. We throw ourselves in the direction of our own choosing.

I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of out time - the time of purple suspenders, and broken chair seats; it is made of white, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years.

It is the reflection of my face. Often in these lost days I study it: I can understand nothing of this face. The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so. But it doesn't strike me. At heart, I am even shocked that anyone can attribute qualities of this kind to it, as if you called a clod of earth or a block of stone beautiful or ugly.

We only become what we are by the radical and deep-seated refusal of that which others have made of us.

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.

What is important is not what happens to us, but how we respond to what happens to us.

A madman's ravings are absurd in relation to the situation in which he finds himself, but not in relation to his madness.

She suffers as a miser. She must be miserly with her pleasures, as well. I wonder if sometimes she doesn't wish she were free of this monotonous sorrow, of these mutterings which start as soon as she stops singing, if she doesn't wish to suffer once and for all, to drown herself in despair. In any case, it would be impossible for her: she is bound.

The consciousness that says 'I am' is not the consciousness that thinks.

It is disgusting — Why must we have bodies?

Most of the time, because of their failure to fasten on to words, my thoughts remain misty and nebulous. They assume vague, amusing shapes and are then swallowed up: I promptly forget them.