Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.
JEAN-PAUL SARTREIt is only in our decisions that we are important.
More Jean-Paul Sartre Quotes
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Existence is an imperfection.
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Words are loaded pistols.
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Do you think that I count the days? There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.
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Death is a continuation of my life without me.
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What is there to fear in such a regular world?
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That’s what existence means: draining one’s own self dry without the sense of thirst.
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The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it.
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Only the guy who isn’t rowing has time to rock the boat.
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The worst part about being lied to is knowing you weren’t worth the truth.
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If I became a philosopher, if I have so keenly sought this fame for which I’m still waiting, it’s all been to seduce women basically.
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Nothingness haunts Being.
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I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And then anything, anything could happen.
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I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything.
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Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.
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Genius is what a man invents when he is looking for a way out.
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One always dies too soon – or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are — your life, and nothing else.
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The consciousness that says ‘I am’ is not the consciousness that thinks.
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To think new thoughts you have to break the bones in your head.
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All that I know about my life, it seems, I have learned in books.
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Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat.
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Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that’s all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.
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Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.
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I do not think, therefore I am a moustache.
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I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.
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I’ve dropped out of their hearts like a little sparrow fallen from its nest. So gather me up, dear, fold me to your heart – and you’ll see how nice I can be.
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I want to leave, to go somewhere where I should be really in my place, where I would fit in, but my place is nowhere; I am unwanted.
JEAN-PAUL SARTRE