All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous
beginning. Great works are often born on a streetcorner
or in a restaurant's revolving door. So it is with
absurdity. The absurd world more than others derives
its nobility from that abject birth. In certain situations,
replying "nothing" when asked what one is thinking
about may be pretense in a man. Those who are loved
are well aware of this. But if that reply is sincere, if it
symbolizes that odd state of soul in which the void becomes
eloquent, in which the chain of daily gestures is
broken, in which the heart vainly seeks the link that will
connect it again, then it is as it were the first sign of
absurdity.
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 followed
most of the time. But one day the "why" arises and
everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.
"Begins"—this is important. Weariness comes at
the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same
time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It
awakens consciousness and provokes what follows. What
follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the
definitive awakening. At the end of the awakening
comes, 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 anything
except through it. There is nothing original about these
remarks. But they are obvious; that is enough for a
while, during a sketchy reconnaissance in the origins of
the absurd. Mere "anxiety," as Heidegger says, is at the
source of everything.
(a passage from 'The Myth of Sisyphus' by Albert Camus)
beginning. Great works are often born on a streetcorner
or in a restaurant's revolving door. So it is with
absurdity. The absurd world more than others derives
its nobility from that abject birth. In certain situations,
replying "nothing" when asked what one is thinking
about may be pretense in a man. Those who are loved
are well aware of this. But if that reply is sincere, if it
symbolizes that odd state of soul in which the void becomes
eloquent, in which the chain of daily gestures is
broken, in which the heart vainly seeks the link that will
connect it again, then it is as it were the first sign of
absurdity.
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 followed
most of the time. But one day the "why" arises and
everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.
"Begins"—this is important. Weariness comes at
the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same
time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It
awakens consciousness and provokes what follows. What
follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the
definitive awakening. At the end of the awakening
comes, 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 anything
except through it. There is nothing original about these
remarks. But they are obvious; that is enough for a
while, during a sketchy reconnaissance in the origins of
the absurd. Mere "anxiety," as Heidegger says, is at the
source of everything.
(a passage from 'The Myth of Sisyphus' by Albert Camus)
