Camus on the absurd (1942)

CAMUS ON THE ABSURD (1942)

All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant's revolving door. So it is withabsurdity. The absurd world more than others derivesits nobility from that abject birth. In certain situations,replying "nothing" when asked what one is thinkingabout may be pretense in a man. Those who are lovedare well aware of this. But if that reply is sincere, if itsymbolizes that odd state of soul in which the void becomes eloquent, in which the chain of daily gestures isbroken, in which the heart vainly seeks the link that willconnect it again, then it is as it were the first sign ofabsurdity.

It happens that the stage sets collapse. Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm—this path is easily followedmost of the time. But one day the "why" arises andeverything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement. "Begins"—this is important. Weariness comes atthe end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the sametime it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. Itawakens consciousness and provokes what follows. Whatfollows is the gradual return into the chain or it is thedefinitive awakening. At the end of the awakeningcomes, in time, the consequence: suicide or recovery.In itself weariness has something sickening about it.Here, I must conclude that it is good. For everything begins with consciousness and nothing is worth anythingexcept through it. There is nothing original about theseremarks. But they are obvious; that is enough for awhile, during a sketchy reconnaissance in the origins ofthe absurd. Mere "anxiety," as Heidegger says, is at thesource of everything.

Likewise and during every day of an unillustriouslife, time carries us. But a moment always comes whenwe have to carry it. We live on the future: "tomorrow,""later on," "when you have made your way," "you willunderstand when you are old enough." Such irrelevancies are wonderful, for, after all, it's a matter of dying.Yet a day comes when a man notices or says that he isthirty. Thus he asserts his youth. But simultaneously hesituates himself in relation to time. He takes his placein it. He admits that he stands at a certain point on acurve that he acknowledges having to travel to its end.He belongs to time, and by the horror that seizes him, he recognizes his worst enemy. Tomorrow, he was longing for tomorrow, whereas everything in him ought toreject it. That revolt of the flesh is the absurd.

A step lower and strangeness creeps in: perceivingthat the world is "dense," sensing to what a degree astone is foreign and irreducible to us, with what intensity nature or a landscape can negate us. At the heartof all beauty lies something inhuman, and these bills,the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at thisvery minute lose the illusory meaning with which wehad clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lostparadise. The primitive hostility of the world rises upto face us across millennia. For a second we cease tounderstand it because for centuries we have understoodin it solely the images and designs that we had attributed to it beforehand, because henceforth we lackthe power to make use of that artifice. The world evadesus because it becomes itself again. That stage scenerymasked by habit becomes again what it is. It withdrawsat a distance from us. Just as there are days when underthe familiar face of a woman, we see as a stranger herwe had loved months or years ago, perhaps we shallcome even to desire what suddenly leaves us so alone.But the time has not yet come. Just one thing: thatdenseness and that strangeness of the world is the absurd.

Men, too, secrete the inhuman. At certain moments of lucidity, the mechanical aspect of their gestures, theirmeaningless pantomime makes silly everything that surrounds them. A man is talking on the telephone behinda glass partition; you cannot hear him, but you see hisincomprehensible dumb show: you wonder why he isalive. This discomfort in the face of man's own inhumanity, this incalculable tumble before the image ofwhat we are, this "nausea," as a writer of today calls it,is also the absurd. Likewise the stranger who at certainseconds comes to meet us in a mirror, the familiar andyet alarming brother we encounter in our own photographs is also the absurd.
(Excerpted from “The Myth of Sisyphus,” in Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, translated by Justin O’Brien [New York: Vintage Books, 1983 (1955)], pp. 12-15.)