Quotes by Jean-Paul Sartre

It answers the question that was tormenting you: my love, you are not one thing in my life - not even the most important - because my life no longer belongs to me because...you are always me.

Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. It is up to you to give [life] a meaning.

You are -- your life, and nothing else.

For many have but one resource to sustain them in their misery, and that is to think, “Circumstances have been against me, I was worthy to be something much better than I have been. I admit I have never had a great love or a great friendship; but that is because I never met a man or a woman who were worthy of it; if I have not written any very good books, it is because I had not the leisure to do so; or, if I have had no children to whom I could devote myself it is because I did not find the man I could have lived with. So there remains within me a wide range of abilities, inclinations and potentialities, unused but perfectly viable, which endow me with a worthiness that could never be inferred from the mere history of my actions.” But in reality and for the existentialist, there is no love apart from the deeds of love; no potentiality of love other than that which is manifested in loving; there is no genius other than that which is expressed in works of art.

She smiled and said with an ecstatic air: It shines like a little diamond,What does?This moment. It is round, it hangs in empty space like a little diamond; I am eternal.

Life has no meaning, the moment you lose the illusion of being eternal.

I never could bear the idea of anyones expecting something from me. Italways made me want to do just the opposite.

Life begins on the other side of despair.

There is only one day left, always starting over: It is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

He was free, free in every way, free to behave like a fool or a machine, free to accept, free to refuse, free to equivocate; to marry, to give up the game, to drag this death weight about with him for years to come. He could do what he liked, no one had the right to advise him, there would be for him no Good or Evil unless he thought them into being.

It is therefore senseless to think of complaining since nothing foreign has decided what we feel, what we live, or what we are.

In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team.

Il ny a de réalité que dans laction.(There is no reality except in action.)

He walked on in silence, the solitary sound of his footsteps echoing in his head, as in a deserted street, at dawn. His solitude was so complete, beneath a lovely sky as mellow and serene as a good conscience, amid that busy throng, that he was amazed at his own existence; he must be somebody elses nightmare, and whoever it was would certainly awaken soon.

In life man commits himself and draws his own portrait, outside of which there is nothing. No doubt this thought may seem harsh to someone who has not made a success of his life. But on the other hand, it helps people to understand that reality alone counts, and that dreams, expectations and hopes only serve to define a man as a broken dream, aborted hopes, and futile expectations.

Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.

One can ask why the I has to appear in the cogito {Descartes’ argument “I think therefore I am.}, since the cogito, if used rightly, is the awareness of pure consciousness, not directed at any fact or action. In fact the I is not necessary here, since it is never united directly to consciousness. One can even imagine a pure and self-aware consciousness which thinks of itself as impersonal spontaneity.

Ama bardağımın dibinde biram ılıksa, aynada koyu renkli lekeler varsa, fazlalıksam; en içten ve en katışıksız acım, ayıbalığı gibi, hem bir yığın et hem gepgeniş bir deriyle ve insanın içine dokunan ıslak, ama kötülük dolu gözlerle sürüklenip hantallaşıyorsa bu benim kabahatim mi?

But no: he was empty, he was confronted by a vast anger, a desperate anger, he saw it and could almost have touched it. But it was inert - if it were to live and find expression and suffer, he must lend it his own body. It was other peoples anger. Swine! He clenched his fists, he strode along, but nothing came, the anger remained external to himself.

Like all dreamers I confuse disenchantment with truth.