Fifty years ago today, Albert Camus was tooling around in a tiny little car, and then he died. I remember delving into Camus as an undergrad, but it wasn't until my mid-twenties that it started to make sense. Much of it still doesn't, which is why I like his writing so much. The ideas are like onions, and age sheds layer after layer, revealing more depth when my mouse-brain is ready for it.
A little over a year ago, I had lunch with a Frenchman. He is one of the most respected people in his field, so I tried to not screw up my French too badly. (When meeting someone like him, it just seems rude to start off in English.) So he politely let me stumble over clumsy French for a few minutes, and then he asked who my favorite French writer was. Camus, bien sûr.
His eyes lit up. "Ah," he said. "I knew Camus."
"Really," I said. I was all cool exterior, but inside, it was holyshitholyshitholyshit. His parents had been friendly with Camus, but because he was a teenager, he didn't realize how big that was. Hearing his stories was a privilege because they revealed pieces of Camus the man, not Camus the symbol.
More than a few people have said that Camus is depressing, which makes me wonder how we can possibly be reading the same words. He is one of the more hopeful writers I've read. I'm not a Camus scholar or anything, but I've always admired the idea of knowing that you're going to lose — as we all do eventually — but fighting the good fight until you do. Pushing the rock up the mountain.
My favorite of his quotes used to be taped on my wall:
This is the deepest winter of my life so far. I don't know if I have ever felt this broken before. Not just broken-hearted but mentally and emotionally Frankensteined. Sometimes there's nothing I want to do more than nothing. Just slither under the covers and close the curtains and give up. But I make myself move through the world because I have to. What else can you do, quit? Hide?
I'd like to say that this attitude has led me to feel better. I can't. It doesn't change anything or erase my sadness. I still go to bed most nights trying to find answers to unanswerable questions. Things are not better now, but they will be eventually, because they must. And to quote another, less eloquent philosopher: At least I'm fucking trying. What the fuck have you done?
This is super corny, even moreso than MacKaye-quoting, but the last scene of Angel has always felt Camusian to me. To summarize: Angel and the gang are faced with a terrifyingly huge army of demons (told you this is corny). Wesley's dead, Gunn's almost there, and it's obvious that there's absolutely no way they'll win or even make a dent against their opponent. Evil's going to win. Then Angel, fully knowing the futility of it all, picks up his sword and says, "Let's go to work."
I think about this scene whenever I feel like giving up, and it helps. (Stop laughing at me.) If I keep pushing, even and especially when it seems like I'm getting nowhere, one of these days, things will get better — or at least I'll get a Dark Horse comic-book spinoff like Angel. Not sure how I got from Camus to Minor Threat to the Whedonverse, but there you have it.
A little over a year ago, I had lunch with a Frenchman. He is one of the most respected people in his field, so I tried to not screw up my French too badly. (When meeting someone like him, it just seems rude to start off in English.) So he politely let me stumble over clumsy French for a few minutes, and then he asked who my favorite French writer was. Camus, bien sûr.
His eyes lit up. "Ah," he said. "I knew Camus."
"Really," I said. I was all cool exterior, but inside, it was holyshitholyshitholyshit. His parents had been friendly with Camus, but because he was a teenager, he didn't realize how big that was. Hearing his stories was a privilege because they revealed pieces of Camus the man, not Camus the symbol.
More than a few people have said that Camus is depressing, which makes me wonder how we can possibly be reading the same words. He is one of the more hopeful writers I've read. I'm not a Camus scholar or anything, but I've always admired the idea of knowing that you're going to lose — as we all do eventually — but fighting the good fight until you do. Pushing the rock up the mountain.
My favorite of his quotes used to be taped on my wall:
In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
This is the deepest winter of my life so far. I don't know if I have ever felt this broken before. Not just broken-hearted but mentally and emotionally Frankensteined. Sometimes there's nothing I want to do more than nothing. Just slither under the covers and close the curtains and give up. But I make myself move through the world because I have to. What else can you do, quit? Hide?
I'd like to say that this attitude has led me to feel better. I can't. It doesn't change anything or erase my sadness. I still go to bed most nights trying to find answers to unanswerable questions. Things are not better now, but they will be eventually, because they must. And to quote another, less eloquent philosopher: At least I'm fucking trying. What the fuck have you done?
This is super corny, even moreso than MacKaye-quoting, but the last scene of Angel has always felt Camusian to me. To summarize: Angel and the gang are faced with a terrifyingly huge army of demons (told you this is corny). Wesley's dead, Gunn's almost there, and it's obvious that there's absolutely no way they'll win or even make a dent against their opponent. Evil's going to win. Then Angel, fully knowing the futility of it all, picks up his sword and says, "Let's go to work."
I think about this scene whenever I feel like giving up, and it helps. (Stop laughing at me.) If I keep pushing, even and especially when it seems like I'm getting nowhere, one of these days, things will get better — or at least I'll get a Dark Horse comic-book spinoff like Angel. Not sure how I got from Camus to Minor Threat to the Whedonverse, but there you have it.
"It's us against millions and we can't take them all. But we can take them on."