There is a good case for showing that airplanes, Debray machines, thetelephoneand theradio donot make men of today happier than those of former times.

On ne na|"t pas femme: on le devient. One is not born a woman: one becomes a woman.

Ce n'est gue'  re que dans les asiles que les coquettes gardent avec ente"  tement une foi entie'  re en des regards absents; normalement, elles re  clament des te  moins. Women fond of dress are hardly ever entirely satisfied not to be seen, except among the insane; usually they want witnesses.

The Communists , following Hegel , speak of humanity and its future as of some monolithic individuality. I was attacking this illusion.

It's frightening to think that you mark your children merely by being yourself... It seems unfair. You can't assume the responsibility for everything you do or don't do.

What is an adult? A child blown up by age.

I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth and truth rewarded me.

One's life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship , indignation and compassion .

In itself, homosexuality is as limiting as heterosexuality: the ideal should be to be capable of loving a woman or a man; either, a human being, without feeling fear, restraint, or obligation.

Time is beginning to flow again.

If I had amnesia, I'd be almost like other men. Perhaps I'd even be able to love you.

I'm never afraid. But in my case it's nothing to be proud of.

He walks in the street, a picture of modesty in his felt hat and his gabardine suit, and all the while he's thinking, "I'm immortal." The world is his, time is his, and I'm nothing but an insect.

One day I'll be old, dead, forgotten. And at this very moment, while I'm sitting here thinking these things, a man in a dingy hotel room is thinking, "I will always be here."

He had not applauded, he had remained seated, but he had looked at her steadily. From the depths of eternity he had looked at her and Rosalind became immortal. If I could believe him, she thought, if only I could believe him!

For the first time in my life, I took part in a real battle between men. The dead did not come to life again, the vanquished fled in disorder; every thrust of my lance helped save Carmona. That day, I would have died with a smile on my lips, certain of having contributed to a triumphant future for my city.

It was as though some stubborn god spent their time in an immutable and absurd balancing act between life and death, prosperity and poverty.

There is only one good. And that is to act according to the dictates of one's conscience.

What has value in their eyes is never what is done for them; it's what they do for themselves.

It is impossible to do anything for anyone.

A conquest of this kind is never finished; the contingency remains, and, so that he may assert his will, man is even obliged to stir up in the world the outrage he does not want. But this element of failure is a very condition of his life; one can never dream of eliminating it without immediately dreaming of death. This does not mean that one should consent to failure, but rather one must consent to struggle against it without respite.

All agree in recognising the fact that females exist in the human species; today as always they make up about one half of humanity. And yet we are told that femininity is in danger; we are exhorted to be women, remain women, become women. It would appear, then, that every female human being is not necessarily a woman; to be so considered she must share in that mysterious and threatened reality known as femininity.

The present enshrines the past and in the past all history has been made by men.

It is doubtless impossible to approach any human problems with a mind free from bias.

One is not born a genius, one becomes a genius; and the feminine situation has up to the present rendered this becoming practically impossible.

On ne naît pas femme: on le devient.

I am incapable of conceiving infinity, and yet I do not accept finity. I want this adventure that is the context of my life to go on without end.

It is old age, rather than death, that is to be contrasted with life. Old age is life's parody, whereas death transforms life into a destiny: in a way it preserves it by giving it the absolute dimension. Death does away with time.

Society cares about the individual only in so far as he is profitable. The young know this. Their anxiety as they enter in upon social life matches the anguish of the old as they are excluded from it.