Tag Archives: Albert Camus

Exile and the Kingdom – Albert Camus

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Translated from the French by Justin O'Brien

Given the unsuccessful nature of my last skirmish with Camus; the short story format, by my reckoning, promised more chance of a positive outcome. Happily, the theory was proven sound.

This collection of six short stories is considerably more accessible (in my opinion) than The Fall. Not only does Camus create vivid landscapes and scenery, but the characters with which he peoples them are real people with tangible qualities. (I didn’t get that in The Fall, which is why I mention it here.) There is no sacrifice of credibility to philosophical extremism.
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The Fall – Albert Camus

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The Fall is sometimes accounted Camus’ best work. A philosophical mediation on the absurdity of the human condition. Problem is, I didn’t get it.

Clamence is a cynical ex-lawyer who, in failing to save or even attempt to help a suicide, comes face to face with his own duplicity and hypocrisy. He details his unappealing past in some detail, although it is not clear which parts are true and which parts are an amalgamation of his experience of humanity. He has a scheme by which he intends to elevate all humanity, but again with the lack of clarity. Given that I did not understand Clamence’s method it was not obvious whether his intent is sincerity or cynicism. I found this novella impossible to pin down.

Disappointed? A little. Hopefully with myself and not the book.

‘Since one could not condemn others without at the same time judging oneself, one should heap accusations on one’s own head, in order to have the right to judge others. Since every judge eventually becomes a penitent, one had to take the opposite route and be a professional penitent in order to become a judge. Do you follow?’

Edit: No, I did not follow, but Kerry did, and his persuasive review lays out good reasons to read The Fall, and a few pointers on how to do so.

The Plague – Albert Camus

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the-plague“The Outsider” having been read, enjoyed and hopefully assimilated to a greater or lesser degree, “The Plague” virtually stopped me in my tracks.  Vaguely aware that Camus dabbles in that philosophy thing, I still wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of abstract thought about to be unleashed upon my unsuspecting self.

Set in a town, in French colonial Algiers, which is quarantined following an outbreak of bubonic plague, The Plague can be read as allegory of the German occupation of France.  It is also partly autobiographical; Camus, driven from his beloved Algiers by TB, was subsequently cut off by the German occupation of Southern France.  And did I mention the philosophy?

I have to confess that I found the novel rather slow in parts, not to mention baffling.  (Yeah, philosophy again…)  On the other hand Camus was not entirely inscrutable and the accessible parts met with my approval.  And who would require a story of human despair and suffering to be exciting; how would that evoke the claustrophobia and resignation and boredom of the town’s inhabitants?

I see with alarm that I am failing to sell this book.  It is an excellent book.  The characters, drawn meticulously, are uniformly engaging.  Camus avoids the very obvious opportunities for sentimentality; for example, the losses suffered by the people of the town are expressed in terms of a man who spits on cats.  A beautiful vignette, and possibly my favourite part.

Although there would be strong competition in the form of the following quote:

This is where he is wrong and he is harder to understand than some others.  But after all that is why he deserves, more than others, that we should try to understand him.

Having been puzzled by the allegorical resistance giving aid and succour to the allegorical apparent collaborator, with this statement all fell into place.  The degree of humanity is quite staggering.  In the face of the suffering of thousands of plague victims; worthy candidates, one might think, for sympathy;  the characters effortlessly extend their understanding to an unloved and unlovable accomplice of plague.  Anti-social tendencies are frailities to be accepted, not faults to be condemned.  Maybe Camus is a trifle unrealistic, but one cannot fault his aspirations. 

At this point the subtle hint given by Camus in the form of a book written in the third person, but sprinkled with the first person plural, is driven home in what almost amounts to a philosophical treatise.  The plague represents not only the Nazi occupation, and the tuberculosis of Camus, but also the human condition whereby indifference leads to evil.  I thought I knew what existentialism is, but having read a little Camus I might now make some small claim to understand it also.

I concluded this particular excursion into Camus with the introduction (rarely a good idea to read the introduction first!)  Alas.  Flirting with the notion of Camus becoming a favourite author, the introduction casually states that “The Plague” is considered one of his more accessible works…

The Outsider – Albert Camus

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the-outsiderI chose to read The Outsider on the strength of a recommendation by my husband, and also because it is very short; a necessary consideration because I am expecting a book in the post… yesterday!

The Outsider was easy (and quick) to read. Clear, concise sentences. I read much of it while the kids were in the bath but, I have to confess, in spite of the shortness of the book, the children did have a certain prune-like wrinkledness about them by the end…

A first person narrative, Meursault tells the story of his initially average existence, his subsequent mistake, and his ultimate fate.

The narrative is split in two; Part I sets the scene, and concludes with the incident which is to dictate the entirety of Part II.

The book ends with an afterword.  I read this in the mistaken belief that it was a conclusion to the story, but unfortunately it was not. In the afterword Camus gives a summary of the story.  Hmph.  I suppose I should be gratified that I was headed in the direction intended by the author, but I hadn’t quite gotten there, and would have preferred to do so under my own steam. I feel slightly uneasy that Camus felt it necessary to dictate the meaning of the book, and I feel a little cheated too.  By stating his intentions, Camus, as the author, effectively negates any contradictory opinions.  I rather thought that the interpretation of a book was the prerogative of each individual reader.

Right.  Forget Camus.  (For the time being, anyway.)

I began the book with little expectation of enjoying it.  Right from the start there is a notable social ineptitude about Meursault which is less than appealing.  If I don’t like the main character I often don’t like the book.  On the other hand, in first person narrative, a dislike of the narrator can be a blessing, as it nullifies the (sometimes painful) phenomenon of being drawn into a too close identification with the character.

As I got further into Part I it started to become apparent that Meursault’s unusual personality was begging for a label.  NO!  This book was not written in the age of labels.  Resist that anachronistic impulse.  For my own peace of mind I decided to catalogue Meursault from first principles.  Logical.  Frank.  Unemotional.  Lacking empathy. 

The characterisation of Meursault is flawless.  One part of the story jarred, and I am not sure that I fully comprehend it, even now, but I am most certainly prepared to give Camus the benefit of the doubt.  A beautifully drawn sub-plot details the story of Meursault’s neighbour, and his dog.  Meursault  expresses sympathy over the fate of the dog which I found unconvincing at the time, but it must be bound up with Meursault’s own truth, and his observation and appreciation of truth in others…  

Part I ends with the act of violence which will irreparably change Meursault’s life.

Part I featured a small cast of characters all inexplicably fond of Mearsault, where I was not.  Part II opens with a new set of characters, hostile to the imprisoned Meursault.  At which point, fairly predictably, I became Meursault’s staunchest defender.

A scene in which the examining magistrate questions Meursault gives the clue to Meurault’s personality (and my conversion to his cause.)  The magistrate tells him he must ‘become like a child whose soul is empty and ready to embrace everything.’  At which point the scales drop from our eyes, and we see that this is Meursault. 

The trial of Meursault follows.

A clever touch at this point was a mirroring of the opening scenes of the book.  I suppose, in retrospect, it is really the other way round.  The beginning foreshadows the end.  Which is so clever and apposite, that I am lost in admiration.  The seemingly benign start is indeed the source of Meursault’s tribulations.

Then comes the definitive (and most poignant) moment of the book.  Meurasult’s friend Raymond is called to the stand, and discredited as a pimp, and thoroughly bad man.  There is an implication that their friendship is based on Raymond’s ulterior motives; Meursault could credibly  deny the association.   But, asked if Raymond is his friend, Meursault simply replies ‘yes.’

(I’ve just spotted there the implicit messianic connotations which Camus refers to in his afterword…)

It is this truthfulness in Meursault, the absolute absence of guile and artifice, which renders him an outcast from society.  The Outsider.

I suppose, in a sense, the book is a satire, the literary, and literal, embodiment of  ’You want the truth?  You can’t handle the truth!’ 

But I found it moving and uplifting and beautiful.  I can’t wait to read it again.