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By operating so silently, the machine seemed to make itself unnoticeable.

Of course someone without the necessary background would notice no difference in the punishments.

'What happens with these corpses that have been dead a long time is that when the damp reaches them they begin to stir. They wake up.'

You see, I didn't even steal space from the earth. They buried me in the grave with you, and I fit right in the hollow of your arms. Here in this little space where I am now. The only thing is that probably I should have my arms around you. You hear ? It's raining up there. Don't you hear the drumming of the rain ?

Then I stopped thinking at all, so I would be dead before he killed me. But I guess he didn't dare.

He shot at so many targets that once in a while he was bound to hit one.

Everything passes.
That is the one and only thing I have thought resembled a truth in the society of human beings where I have dwelled up to now in a burning hell.

"The "world", after all, was still a place of bottomless horror. It was by no means a place of childlike simplicity where everything could be settled by a single then-and-there decision.

The "world", after all, was still a place of childlike simplicity where everything could be settled by a single then-and-there decision.

The charge against me was suspended, but this brought no joy.

I was so excited I could have wept.

Mine has been a life of much shame.
I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

Not love, not landscape, nothing but an infinite waste of solitude and happiness in which Mersault was playing his last cards.

It is as if the suddenly cooler dew of the night were rinsing the signs of solitude from them, delivering them from themselves, and by that tremulous and fugitive baptism restoring them to the world.

Inside him widened a great lake of solitude and silence above which ran the sad song of his deliverance.

Happiness, too, is a long patience.

'One more Sunday got through'

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.
― Franz Kafka

Motionless, Zagreus seemed to be contemplating all the inhuman beauty of this April morning.

The truth is that I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity. I like - but I must not run on in this way.

For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of mass is behind the single voice.

Brutally honest:-
It seemed pure waste of time to consult all those gentlemen who specialize in woman and her effect on whatever it may be- politics, children, wages, morality- numerous and learned as they are. One might as well leave their books unopened.

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own.

There comes a time when one must choose contemplation and action. This is called becoming a man. Such wrenches are dreadful. But for a proud heart there can be no compromise. There is God or time, that cross or this sword. The world has a higher meaning that transcends its worries and or nothing is true but those worries. One must live with time and die with it or else elude it for a greater life.
-Albert Camus

"Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”
― Albert Camus

A moment comes when the creation ceases to be taken tragically; it is merely taken seriously. Then the man is concerned with hope. But that is not his business. His business is to turn away from subterfuge. Yet this is what I find at the conclusion of the vehement proceedings Kafka institutes against whole universe. His unbelievable verdict is this hideous and upsetting world in which the very moles dare to hope.

Belief in the meaning of life always implies a scale of values, a choice, our preferences. Belief in the absurd, according to our definitions, teaches the contrary. But this is worth examining.

Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation and the uselessness of suffering.

The Mirror:

As a child I feared the mirror might reveal
Another face, or make me see a blind
Impersonal mask whose blankness must conceal
Something horrible, no doubt. I also feared
The silent time inside the looking glass
Might meander from the ordinary stream
Of mundane human hours, and harbor deep
Within its vague, imaginery space
New found beings, colors, unknown shapes.

“Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.”


― Honoré de Balzac