He was born in French Algeria, as a Pied Noir (basically a
white French family in an Arab country), and as such, was sensitive to the
plight of equal rights, humanism, and ultimately created and defined the
philosophy of Absurdism. Many people assume him to be an existentialist, but
this is not entirely accurate. His commentary through literature deals with the
pragmatic reality of ethical behavior in a postmodern and arguably
“meaningless” universe. Philosophically his starting point was the necessity of
“suicide” as the only ethical or reasonable solution to meaninglessness,
however through argument he shows that this is simply not the case. In other
words, there are still meaningful ways to live that don’t require the act of
suicide, even though the universe is meaningless inherently, humans can still
create meaning not as an act of illusion, but as an act of ongoing principle.
In his words, “as humans we must entertain Death and the Absurd, while never
agreeing to their terms.”
He’s most well-known for his novel The Stranger which deals
with these themes as the protagonist reflects on the act of murder and the
absurdity of living or dying while in prison. But after his untimely death in
1960, his then wife and his estate released posthumously his “cahiers” (a fancy
French word that means “notebooks.”) In these notebooks there are a collection
of mostly unfinished short stories, articles, and a few unfinished novels, one
of which is called La Mort Heureuse or “The Happy Death.” I recently read this
in one sitting on an airplane after finding it a dollar paperback bin at Half
Price Books and it flipped my wig cap way back y’all.
On the surface the novel is mostly a sketch and completely
unfinished or polished. It exhibits an imbalance in structure and only hints at
the author’s later genius, however this can be easily dismissed as it was his
first (think early 20’s) attempt at writing a novel. It also has elements of
autobiographical insight and mirrors elements of his early life.
But regardless, under the surface you have a damn good and
rather entertaining story about a dude named Patrice Meursault. Patrice lives
in Algiers and his description of a rather empty life living in the apartment
he once shared with his now dead mother is quickly engrossing as you sense that
he is a strong and intelligent man without the means to being “happy.”
He works as a clerk during the day, and in the evenings he
spends time with a rather lukewarm girlfriend. They attend movies or have
dinner. The relationship is basic without either one of them really having much
attachment to each other, until one night his girlfriend waves to an unknown
man and Patrice feels jealousy. She later admits that the man they’d seen had
been an ex-lover and Patrice is thrown into a philosophical maelstrom in his
attempt to deal with his feelings of possessiveness even when he knows there is
nothing to really love about this woman. Ultimately it becomes known the ex is
actually a wealthy invalid by the name of Roland Zagreus who Patrice agrees to
meet with in order to better understand why he feels jealousy at all
(especially for a cripple).
The two become “friends” and Roland tells him that he is
filthy rich, and that it is good to be rich, because wealth buys time and time
is needed for a man to learn how to live (and die) happily. Roland believes he
can no longer live happily due to this inability to walk or to care for
himself. We are not told how Roland came to be an invalid, but it has been
argued that this is a literary device meant to reflect on the nature of the
infirm (Camus had Tuberculosis as a young man and actually wrote this novel
while convalescing.)
Patrice realizes that Roland has a safe full of money, after
Roland asks him to go and get a gun out of it so that he can hold it and think
of suicide in the dark after Patrice leaves. This is ironic, as Roland tells
Patrice that he is staunchly against the act of suicide, but (as the French
will do) he enjoys holding the gun and knowing that it remains within his power
to pull the trigger at any time.
Patrice later returns, opens the safe and murders Roland in
cold blood. He then takes his money and decides that he will do everything he
can in order to learn how to live “happily.” All he needed of course was money,
and the time that it buys to learn happiness.
This is a similar theme to The Stranger, except Patrice does
not get caught. He travels in Europe for a time, seeing what life on the road
has to offer. He visits a prostitute and finds joy in the happiness that his
money bought for her. Finally he returns to Algiers and buys a house in the
country. He marries a woman that he pays to lives in the city, and only invites
her to visit him when it suits him. He has only one friend in the countryside,
a doctor, and they spend most of the rest of the novel waxing philosophical
about the nature of solitude and happiness and the meaninglessness of life.
Patrice swims in the ocean every day, and works to find what he’s looking for
in life.
He ultimately gets sick, and becomes bed ridden. He invites
his wife to visit and his friend. They sit together and he goes in and out of
consciousness. Until finally he gives up the ghost while thinking of the man
Roland that he killed so many years ago. To him there is bliss in the idea that
despite his murder, he used Roland’s money for the purpose of finding happiness
and this was a good life. So therefore as he lays dying there is peace and a
happy death.
“And stone among stones, he returned in the joy of his heart
to the truth of the motionless worlds.”
French translations into English although easier than most
other languages can leave some things lost in translation. The French language
is much more philosophical in nature and much less direct that English is, and
therefore some of his musings throughout the book fall flat in my opinion.
There is also the imbalance aforementioned in the structure of the novel, which
I believe hinders its readability. But I would still recommend this one. It’s
not as good as the Stranger, but there’s an innocence to it that I found
refreshing. It reminded me of an early Kerouac or Henry Miller. Camus has always been my favorite of the French philosophers, perhaps because he’s so realistic. He doesn’t waste much time with theory, he only tells what he sees in true and stubborn French fashion.
Donc, en
conclusion, celui-ci peut rester ... je lui donne une nouvelle!
By Matt Cowart
No comments:
Post a Comment