To Live Is To Hurt Others, And

I Draw From The Absurd Three Consequences: My Revolt, My Liberty, My Passion.

In Order To Exist, Man Must Rebel.

In A Universe Suddenly Divested Of Illusion And Lights, Man Feels An Alien, A Stranger. His Exile Is Without Remedy Since He Is Deprived Of The Memory Of A Lost Home Or The Hope Of A Promised Land.

You Know Very Well That I No Longer Think. I Am Far Too Intelligent For That.

What, In Fact, Is A Novel But A Universe In Which Action Is Endowed With Form, Where Final Words Are Pronounced, Where People Possess One Another Completely, And Where Life Assumes The Aspect Of Destiny?