"I laugh when I think that all of Rome made it a point not to pronounce Drusilla's name. Because Rome was mistaken for all those years. Love is not enough for me, and I understood that then.... To love someone is to accept to grow old with her. An old Drusilla is far worse than a dead one."
"Losing life is a trifle and I will have that courage when I need it. But to see the meaning of this life vanishing, our reason forexisting disappearing, that is what I cannot stand. No one can live without reason."
"Everyone Tarrou set eyes on had that vacant gaze, and was visibly suffering from the complete break with all that life had meant to him. And since they could not be thinking of their death all the time, they thought of nothing... "For really to think about someone means thinking about that person every minute of the day, without letting one's thoughts be diverted by anything; by meals, by a fly that settles on someone's cheek, by household duties, or by a sudden itch somewhere. But there are always flies and itches. That's why life is difficult to live."
"Have you noticed that only death arouses our emotions? How we love thee friends who have just passed away, right? How we admire those master who no longer speak, their mouths full of dirt. We them we are not obligated."
"He is asleep. He knows no longer the fatigue of the work of deciding, the work to finish. He sleeps, he has no longer to strain, to force himself, to require of himself that which he cannot do. He no longer bears the cross of that interior life which proscribes rest, distraction, weaknesshe sleeps and thinks no longer, he has no more duties or chores, no, no, and I, old and tired, oh! I envy that he sleeps and will soon die."
"I asked her if she wanted to go to the movies that night. She laughed again and told me that she felt like seeing a Fernandel movie. When we got dressed, she seemed very surprised to see me wearing a black tie and asked me if I was in mourning. I told her that my mother was dead. Since she asked me since when, I answered, "Since yesterday"."
"The end of all stories, even if the writer forebears to mention it, is death, which is where time stops short. Sheherezade knew this, which is why she kept on spinning another story out of the bowels of the last one, never coming to a point where she could say: "This is the end." Because it would have been."