To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others. - Albert Camus

What, then, is that incalculable feeling that deprives the mind of the sleep necessary to life? A world that can be explained even with bad reasons is a familiar world. But, on the other hand, in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity.

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.