And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.
Since we're all going to die, it's obvious that when and how don't matter.
It occurred to me that anyway one more Sunday was over that Maman was buried now, that I was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed.
For ever, I shall be a stranger to myself.
Everything is true, and nothing is true!
Somebody has to have the last word. If not, every argument could be opposed by another and we'd never be done with it.
... one cannot be happy in exile or in oblivion. One cannot always be a stranger. I want to return to my homeland, make all my loved ones happy. I see no further than this.
Liberty is dangerous, as hard to get along with as it is exciting.
Over there, in Europe, all was shame and anger. Here it was exile or solitude, among these languid and agitated madmen who danced in order to die.
Liberty is dangerous.
Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?" "Yes," I said.
I was assailed by memories of a life that wasn't mine anymore, but one in which I'd found the simplest and most lasting joys.