Believe me there is no such thing as great suffering, great regret, great memory....everything is forgotten, even a great love. That's what's sad about life, and also what's wonderful about it. There is only a way of looking at things, a way that comes to you every once in a while. That's why it's good to have had love in your life after all, to have had an unhappy passion- it gives you an alibi for the vague despairs we all suffer from.
Albert CamusTag: philosophy existentialism
You make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters—all that matters, really—is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, ever-present consciousness. The rest—women, art, success—is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for our embroideries.
Albert CamusTag: happiness
Yes, I'm happy, in human terms.
Albert CamusTag: happiness
Thus, in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of aimless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress.
Albert CamusThere are means that cannot be excused. And I should like to be able to love my country and still love justice. I don't want just any greatness for it, particularly a greatness born of blood and falsehood. I want to keep it alive by keeping justice alive.
Albert CamusMostra la citazione in tedesco
Mostra la citazione in francese
Mostra la citazione in italiano
There are no more deserts. There are no more islands. Yet there
is a need for them. In order to understand the world, one has to turn
away from it on occasion; in order to serve men better, one has to
hold them at a distance for a time. But where can one find the
solitude necessary to vigor, the deep breath in which the mind
collects itself and courage gauges its strength?
Any thought that abandons unity glorifies diversity. And
diversity is the home of art. The only thought to liberate the mind
is that which leaves it alone, certain of its limits and of its
impending end. No doctrine tempts it. It awaits the ripening of the
work and of life. Detached from it, the work will once more give a
barely muffled voice to a soul Forever freed from hope. Or it will
give voice to nothing if the creator, tired of his activity, intends to
turn away. That is equivalent.
All facts are. In a world where everything
is given and nothing is explained, the fecundity of a value or of a
metaphysic is a notion devoid of meaning.
To feel one’s attachment to a certain region, one’s love for a
certain group of men, to know that there is always a spot where
one’s heart will feel at peace these are many certainties for a single
human life. And yet this is not enough. But at certain moments
everything yearns for that spiritual home
Not that one must be an
animal, but I find no meaning in the happiness of angels. I know
simply that this sky will last longer than I. And what shall I call
eternity except what will continue after my death?
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