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By Albert Camus

What struck me most about their faces was that one couldn't see their eyes, only a dull glow in a sort of nest of wrinkles.

After closing the door behind me I lingered for some moments on the landing. The whole building was as quiet as the grave, a dank, dark smell rising from the well hole of the stairs. I could hear nothing but the blood throbbing in my ears, and for awhile I stood still, listening to it. Then the dog began to moan in old Salamano's room, and through the sleep-bound house the little plaintive sound rose slowly, like a flower growing out of the silence and the darkness.

All normal people, I added on as an afterthought, had more or less desired the death of those they loved, at some time or another.

My physical condition at any given moment often influenced my feelings.

I have never been able really to regret anything in all my life. I've always been far too much absorbed in the present moment, or the immediate future, to think back.

We cannot blame a man for lacking what it was never in his power to acquire.