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Le premier homme
« En somme, je vais parler de ceux que j'aimais », écrit Albert Camus dans une note pour Le premier homme. Le projet de ce roman auquel il travaillait au moment de sa mort était ambitieux. Il avait dit un jour que les écrivains « gardent l'espoir de retrouver les secrets d'un art universel qui, à force d'humilité et de maîtrise, ressusciterait enfin les personnages dans leur chair et dans leur durée ».
Il avait jeté les bases de ce qui serait le récit de l'enfance de son « premier homme ». Cette rédaction initiale a un caractère autobiographique qui aurait sûrement disparu dans la version définitive du roman. Mais c'est justement ce côté autobiographique qui est précieux aujourd'hui.
Après avoir lu ces pages, on voit apparaître les racines de ce qui fera la personnalité de Camus, sa sensibilité, la genèse de sa pensée, les raisons de son engagement. Pourquoi, toute sa vie, il aura voulu parler au nom de ceux à qui la parole est refusée.
Il avait jeté les bases de ce qui serait le récit de l'enfance de son « premier homme ». Cette rédaction initiale a un caractère autobiographique qui aurait sûrement disparu dans la version définitive du roman. Mais c'est justement ce côté autobiographique qui est précieux aujourd'hui.
Après avoir lu ces pages, on voit apparaître les racines de ce qui fera la personnalité de Camus, sa sensibilité, la genèse de sa pensée, les raisons de son engagement. Pourquoi, toute sa vie, il aura voulu parler au nom de ceux à qui la parole est refusée.
384 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
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About the author
Albert Camus
1,035 books36.6k followersWorks, such as the novels
The Stranger
(1942) and
The Plague
(1947), of Algerian-born French writer and philosopher Albert Camus concern the absurdity of the human condition; he won the Nobel Prize of 1957 for literature.
Origin and his experiences of this representative of non-metropolitan literature in the 1930s dominated influences in his thought and work.
He also adapted plays of Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Lope de Vega, Dino Buzzati, and Requiem for a Nun of William Faulkner. One may trace his enjoyment of the theater back to his membership in l'Equipe, an Algerian group, whose "collective creation" Révolte dans les Asturies (1934) was banned for political reasons.
Of semi-proletarian parents, early attached to intellectual circles of strongly revolutionary tendencies, with a deep interest, he came at the age of 25 years in 1938; only chance prevented him from pursuing a university career in that field. The man and the times met: Camus joined the resistance movement during the occupation and after the liberation served as a columnist for the newspaper Combat.
The essay Le Mythe de Sisyphe (The Myth of Sisyphus), 1942, expounds notion of acceptance of the absurd of Camus with "the total absence of hope, which has nothing to do with despair, a continual refusal, which must not be confused with renouncement - and a conscious dissatisfaction."
Meursault, central character of L'Étranger (The Stranger), 1942, illustrates much of this essay: man as the nauseated victim of the absurd orthodoxy of habit, later - when the young killer faces execution - tempted by despair, hope, and salvation.
Besides his fiction and essays, Camus very actively produced plays in the theater (e.g., Caligula, 1944).
The time demanded his response, chiefly in his activities, but in 1947, Camus retired from political journalism.
Doctor Rieux of La Peste (The Plague), 1947, who tirelessly attends the plague-stricken citizens of Oran, enacts the revolt against a world of the absurd and of injustice, and confirms words: "We refuse to despair of mankind. Without having the unreasonable ambition to save men, we still want to serve them."
People also well know La Chute (The Fall), work of Camus in 1956.
Camus authored L'Exil et le royaume (Exile and the Kingdom) in 1957. His austere search for moral order found its aesthetic correlative in the classicism of his art. He styled of great purity, intense concentration, and rationality.
Camus died at the age of 46 years in a car accident near Sens in le Grand Fossard in the small town of Villeblevin.
Chinese 阿尔贝·加缪
Origin and his experiences of this representative of non-metropolitan literature in the 1930s dominated influences in his thought and work.
He also adapted plays of Pedro Calderón de la Barca, Lope de Vega, Dino Buzzati, and Requiem for a Nun of William Faulkner. One may trace his enjoyment of the theater back to his membership in l'Equipe, an Algerian group, whose "collective creation" Révolte dans les Asturies (1934) was banned for political reasons.
Of semi-proletarian parents, early attached to intellectual circles of strongly revolutionary tendencies, with a deep interest, he came at the age of 25 years in 1938; only chance prevented him from pursuing a university career in that field. The man and the times met: Camus joined the resistance movement during the occupation and after the liberation served as a columnist for the newspaper Combat.
The essay Le Mythe de Sisyphe (The Myth of Sisyphus), 1942, expounds notion of acceptance of the absurd of Camus with "the total absence of hope, which has nothing to do with despair, a continual refusal, which must not be confused with renouncement - and a conscious dissatisfaction."
Meursault, central character of L'Étranger (The Stranger), 1942, illustrates much of this essay: man as the nauseated victim of the absurd orthodoxy of habit, later - when the young killer faces execution - tempted by despair, hope, and salvation.
Besides his fiction and essays, Camus very actively produced plays in the theater (e.g., Caligula, 1944).
The time demanded his response, chiefly in his activities, but in 1947, Camus retired from political journalism.
Doctor Rieux of La Peste (The Plague), 1947, who tirelessly attends the plague-stricken citizens of Oran, enacts the revolt against a world of the absurd and of injustice, and confirms words: "We refuse to despair of mankind. Without having the unreasonable ambition to save men, we still want to serve them."
People also well know La Chute (The Fall), work of Camus in 1956.
Camus authored L'Exil et le royaume (Exile and the Kingdom) in 1957. His austere search for moral order found its aesthetic correlative in the classicism of his art. He styled of great purity, intense concentration, and rationality.
Camus died at the age of 46 years in a car accident near Sens in le Grand Fossard in the small town of Villeblevin.
Chinese 阿尔贝·加缪
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April 5, 2023
[Edited for typos 4/5/23]
Basically this is an autobiography by Camus. The manuscript was found in the car when Camus died in a car crash in 1960, when he was 57, three years after he won the Nobel Prize. In an editor’s note we are told it clearly was a draft with a lot of footnotes and other notes that show a writer at work. (Don’t use the real names; develop; add this; delete that; illegible.) Obviously it could use additional editing, but it’s a good book as is.
We’re told the manuscript was not published until 1994 (by his daughter) because friends of her mother (Camus’s wife) had advised her that by denouncing Communism, yet advocating for a multicultural Algeria that gave native Algerians the same rights as whites, Camus “alienated both the left and the right.”
While there are occasional references to politics, colonization and the treatment of Arabs, I would not call this a 'political novel.' Camus does note the racial tension: if a bar fight broke out between a Frenchman and an Arab, it was not the same thing as a fight between two Arabs or two Frenchmen. There is an incident where a terrorist bomb goes off in the street.
The autobiography is encased in a very undeveloped shell story of an older man returning to Algeria from France to learn of his roots, especially of his father who died in WW I, before the son knew him. Camus’s ancestors had come to Algeria from Alsace when the Germans took over and threw the French out. Camus’s father was a man who knew little of France and yet was forced to go off and die for that country.
Camus was born to European parents but, with the early death of his father, he grew up in poverty. His home had no books, newspapers or radio. No outsiders, only relatives, ever visited. It was an ethnically diverse neighborhood. There were Arabs and Europeans, of course, but also M’zab’s (a fundamentalist Islamic non-Arab Berber group), Maltese, Italians and others.
Camus had a semi-deaf, very distant mother who worked as a maid. His father’s mother ran the household and severely disciplined Camus and his brother. They would get a whipping for playing soccer in their shoes. A deaf uncle, his father’s brother, also lived with them.
Although Camus was nominally Catholic (as the saying goes, his family only went to church when someone was hatched, matched or dispatched), he never heard the word God spoken in his house. Even when someone died, the most his grandmother said was “Well, he’ll fart no more.”
The work pays homage to one particular teacher who challenged and championed Camus. He gave him books, got him a scholarship, and intervened with his family when they wanted him to drop out of school to get a job. The Appendix includes a letter Campus wrote to this teacher in gratitude when Camus received the Nobel Prize.
You get the impression this book was a work of love for Camus. (Aren’t all autobiographies?) He gives us detailed, multi-page, descriptions of hunting with his uncle and friends; activities at the cooperage where his uncle worked; a visit to stables. We get descriptions of making pies, the local dog catcher, the local bazaar, trolley operation, helping his grandmother kill a hen, his school and a local park where he hung out with friends. Fascinating things through a young boy’s eyes and I think these vignettes of his childhood are the best sections of the book.
Camus was prescient when on the very last page, he says of the main character: “…he, like a solitary and ever-shining blade of a sword, was destined to be shattered with a single blow and forever…” The car crash?
Although this book does not have the philosophical heft that his other works have, I found it a good read that kept my interest.
Top photo: the crash in France in which Camus was killed. Camus’s publisher was driving. From abc.net.au
French riot police lob tear gas at French protesting De Gaulle’s self-determination policy for Algeria in the 1960s. From shutterstock.com
The author from cassandravoices.com
Basically this is an autobiography by Camus. The manuscript was found in the car when Camus died in a car crash in 1960, when he was 57, three years after he won the Nobel Prize. In an editor’s note we are told it clearly was a draft with a lot of footnotes and other notes that show a writer at work. (Don’t use the real names; develop; add this; delete that; illegible.) Obviously it could use additional editing, but it’s a good book as is.
We’re told the manuscript was not published until 1994 (by his daughter) because friends of her mother (Camus’s wife) had advised her that by denouncing Communism, yet advocating for a multicultural Algeria that gave native Algerians the same rights as whites, Camus “alienated both the left and the right.”
While there are occasional references to politics, colonization and the treatment of Arabs, I would not call this a 'political novel.' Camus does note the racial tension: if a bar fight broke out between a Frenchman and an Arab, it was not the same thing as a fight between two Arabs or two Frenchmen. There is an incident where a terrorist bomb goes off in the street.
The autobiography is encased in a very undeveloped shell story of an older man returning to Algeria from France to learn of his roots, especially of his father who died in WW I, before the son knew him. Camus’s ancestors had come to Algeria from Alsace when the Germans took over and threw the French out. Camus’s father was a man who knew little of France and yet was forced to go off and die for that country.
Camus was born to European parents but, with the early death of his father, he grew up in poverty. His home had no books, newspapers or radio. No outsiders, only relatives, ever visited. It was an ethnically diverse neighborhood. There were Arabs and Europeans, of course, but also M’zab’s (a fundamentalist Islamic non-Arab Berber group), Maltese, Italians and others.
Camus had a semi-deaf, very distant mother who worked as a maid. His father’s mother ran the household and severely disciplined Camus and his brother. They would get a whipping for playing soccer in their shoes. A deaf uncle, his father’s brother, also lived with them.
Although Camus was nominally Catholic (as the saying goes, his family only went to church when someone was hatched, matched or dispatched), he never heard the word God spoken in his house. Even when someone died, the most his grandmother said was “Well, he’ll fart no more.”
The work pays homage to one particular teacher who challenged and championed Camus. He gave him books, got him a scholarship, and intervened with his family when they wanted him to drop out of school to get a job. The Appendix includes a letter Campus wrote to this teacher in gratitude when Camus received the Nobel Prize.
You get the impression this book was a work of love for Camus. (Aren’t all autobiographies?) He gives us detailed, multi-page, descriptions of hunting with his uncle and friends; activities at the cooperage where his uncle worked; a visit to stables. We get descriptions of making pies, the local dog catcher, the local bazaar, trolley operation, helping his grandmother kill a hen, his school and a local park where he hung out with friends. Fascinating things through a young boy’s eyes and I think these vignettes of his childhood are the best sections of the book.
Camus was prescient when on the very last page, he says of the main character: “…he, like a solitary and ever-shining blade of a sword, was destined to be shattered with a single blow and forever…” The car crash?
Although this book does not have the philosophical heft that his other works have, I found it a good read that kept my interest.
Top photo: the crash in France in which Camus was killed. Camus’s publisher was driving. From abc.net.au
French riot police lob tear gas at French protesting De Gaulle’s self-determination policy for Algeria in the 1960s. From shutterstock.com
The author from cassandravoices.com
January 9, 2021
A Hunger for Discovery
This is Camus’s last work. But for anyone interested in his philosophy, or more importantly the reasons for his philosophy, this should probably be the first to read. The First Man is intensely emotional without being sentimental, self-critical without regrets, and above all human with a humanness which is, I think, the key to everything else he wrote.
The book shows Camus as a person shaped in his intentions as well as his vices by a most remarkable and unlikely multi-cultural background of poverty, intellectual depravation and what can only be called highly disciplined love: “They hurt each other without wanting to, just because each represented to the others the cruel and demanding necessity of their lives.” The narrative is not so much biographical as episodic, recounting the obviously most important emotional events and recognitions of his life. The dominant theme, only emerging explicitly in middle age, is the search for the hidden personality of his dead father, killed in the Great War during Camus’s infancy.
Jacques, Camus’s fictionalised Self, was aware of some vague deficiency, “There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurt,” he says. The source of this feeling only becomes clear upon the discovery of his father’s war grave almost forty years after his death. The epiphany at the graveside is instant and profound:
Is it right to think that this is a confession of a moral conversion, a conversion from a sort of resentful resistance to the world to a sympathetic acceptance of its infinite depth and complexity? I think so. And it certainly changes my appreciation of Camus in his roles as writer, philosopher, and political activist. Although he is in many ways representative of his time and place - the radical post-war politics of France - he was never a product of his times. He was from elsewhere, literally in his Algerian upbringing, and intellectually in his appreciation of the non-intellectual foundations of life. His family, his neighbours, his friends “looked on life with a resigned suspicion; they loved it as animals do, but they knew from experience that it would regularly give birth to disaster without even showing any sign that it was carrying it.”
Camus was, if we take Jacques literally as his mouthpiece, a “sceptical believer,” not in religion or fate or ideology, but in the necessity for ever wider and deeper human discovery. Ultimately this belief is an aesthetic, a filter which allows him to reconfigure the previously perceived ugliness of the France of his adulthood in terms of the impoverished but definite beauty of his Algerian mother, the devotion of his remarkably tenacious family, the care of an outstanding teacher, and the unhesitating dutifulness of his mysterious father. But it is this last that psychically drives all the rest; the skeleton key to his life. Only by opening himself to this loss was he able to relax into himself: “at last he could sleep and he could come back to the childhood from which he had never recovered.”
This is Camus’s last work. But for anyone interested in his philosophy, or more importantly the reasons for his philosophy, this should probably be the first to read. The First Man is intensely emotional without being sentimental, self-critical without regrets, and above all human with a humanness which is, I think, the key to everything else he wrote.
The book shows Camus as a person shaped in his intentions as well as his vices by a most remarkable and unlikely multi-cultural background of poverty, intellectual depravation and what can only be called highly disciplined love: “They hurt each other without wanting to, just because each represented to the others the cruel and demanding necessity of their lives.” The narrative is not so much biographical as episodic, recounting the obviously most important emotional events and recognitions of his life. The dominant theme, only emerging explicitly in middle age, is the search for the hidden personality of his dead father, killed in the Great War during Camus’s infancy.
Jacques, Camus’s fictionalised Self, was aware of some vague deficiency, “There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurt,” he says. The source of this feeling only becomes clear upon the discovery of his father’s war grave almost forty years after his death. The epiphany at the graveside is instant and profound:
“... in the strange dizziness of that moment, the statue every man eventually erects and that hardens in the fire of the years, into which he then creeps and there awaits its final crumbling – that statue was rapidly cracking, it was already collapsing. All that was left was this anguished heart, eager to live, rebelling against the deadly order of the world that had been with him for forty years, and still struggling against the wall that separated him from the secret of all life, wanting to go farther, to go beyond, and to discover, discover before dying, discover at last in order to be, just once to be, for a single second, but for ever.”
Is it right to think that this is a confession of a moral conversion, a conversion from a sort of resentful resistance to the world to a sympathetic acceptance of its infinite depth and complexity? I think so. And it certainly changes my appreciation of Camus in his roles as writer, philosopher, and political activist. Although he is in many ways representative of his time and place - the radical post-war politics of France - he was never a product of his times. He was from elsewhere, literally in his Algerian upbringing, and intellectually in his appreciation of the non-intellectual foundations of life. His family, his neighbours, his friends “looked on life with a resigned suspicion; they loved it as animals do, but they knew from experience that it would regularly give birth to disaster without even showing any sign that it was carrying it.”
Camus was, if we take Jacques literally as his mouthpiece, a “sceptical believer,” not in religion or fate or ideology, but in the necessity for ever wider and deeper human discovery. Ultimately this belief is an aesthetic, a filter which allows him to reconfigure the previously perceived ugliness of the France of his adulthood in terms of the impoverished but definite beauty of his Algerian mother, the devotion of his remarkably tenacious family, the care of an outstanding teacher, and the unhesitating dutifulness of his mysterious father. But it is this last that psychically drives all the rest; the skeleton key to his life. Only by opening himself to this loss was he able to relax into himself: “at last he could sleep and he could come back to the childhood from which he had never recovered.”
May 4, 2025
It's a good book, but it's not a great one: the style is a little monotonous, and it does not differ in any way from other childhood stories. The description of life in Algeria can be transposed to any French region. It is probably necessary to consider the fact that this was a draft.
However, one thing comforts me: although flawed, the childhood depicted was happy and free, with an undemonstrative but loving entourage.
However, one thing comforts me: although flawed, the childhood depicted was happy and free, with an undemonstrative but loving entourage.
June 18, 2013
This book was not what I expected. Due to the philosophical, melancholy nature of the first two Camus books I’ve read, (The Stranger and The Plague), I expected this book to be more academic, but it was far from it; it’s a more personal book, nostalgic, full of feelings and memories.
This book is considered to be an autobiographical novel, and its unedited manuscript was found in the car wreckage in which Camus was killed. Even for an unedited piece of work, it is simply a masterpiece. It was interesting to read Camus' annotations, and “see” the thought-process in his writing. The markings and notes definitely made Camus appear more "human" than he seems to be in his other books. The deep philosophical musings from his other books is notably missing.
Jacques Cormery (Camus), a poor, gifted French child, was born and raised in Algeria by a semi-deaf mother and a domineering grandmother. As an adult (40 years old), he becomes more curious about his father, Henri, who died during the war at the very young age of 29. Not knowing his father clearly affected Cormery:
“Something here was not in the natural order and, in truth, there was no order but chaos when the son was older than the father.”
Unfortunately, nobody in his family could really help him on his quest:
“In a family where they spoke little, where no one read or wrote, with an unhappy listless mother,who would have informed him about his young, pitiable father?”
However, despite his frustration, Cormery (Camus) understands the situation; he understands poverty and its effect on people:
“To begin with, poor people’s memory is less nourished than that of the rich; it has fewer landmarks in space because they seldom leave the place where they live, and fewer reference points in time throughout lives that are grey and featureless. Of course there is the memory of the heart that they say is the surest kind, but the heart wears out with sorrow and labour, it forgets sooner under the weight of fatigue. Remembrance of things past is just for the rich. For the poor it only marks the faint traces on the path to death.”
I will end with an excerpt from a letter that Louis Germain (Camus' teacher, the man responsible for rescuing Camus from illiteracy) wrote to Camus:
"Who is Camus? I have the impression that those who try to penetrate your nature do not quite succeed. You have always shown an instinctive reticence about revealing your nature, your feelings. You succeed all the more for being unaffected, direct."
I would highly recommend it to all Camus fans. This is the kind of book that will stay with the reader for a very long time.
This book is considered to be an autobiographical novel, and its unedited manuscript was found in the car wreckage in which Camus was killed. Even for an unedited piece of work, it is simply a masterpiece. It was interesting to read Camus' annotations, and “see” the thought-process in his writing. The markings and notes definitely made Camus appear more "human" than he seems to be in his other books. The deep philosophical musings from his other books is notably missing.
Jacques Cormery (Camus), a poor, gifted French child, was born and raised in Algeria by a semi-deaf mother and a domineering grandmother. As an adult (40 years old), he becomes more curious about his father, Henri, who died during the war at the very young age of 29. Not knowing his father clearly affected Cormery:
“Something here was not in the natural order and, in truth, there was no order but chaos when the son was older than the father.”
Unfortunately, nobody in his family could really help him on his quest:
“In a family where they spoke little, where no one read or wrote, with an unhappy listless mother,who would have informed him about his young, pitiable father?”
However, despite his frustration, Cormery (Camus) understands the situation; he understands poverty and its effect on people:
“To begin with, poor people’s memory is less nourished than that of the rich; it has fewer landmarks in space because they seldom leave the place where they live, and fewer reference points in time throughout lives that are grey and featureless. Of course there is the memory of the heart that they say is the surest kind, but the heart wears out with sorrow and labour, it forgets sooner under the weight of fatigue. Remembrance of things past is just for the rich. For the poor it only marks the faint traces on the path to death.”
I will end with an excerpt from a letter that Louis Germain (Camus' teacher, the man responsible for rescuing Camus from illiteracy) wrote to Camus:
"Who is Camus? I have the impression that those who try to penetrate your nature do not quite succeed. You have always shown an instinctive reticence about revealing your nature, your feelings. You succeed all the more for being unaffected, direct."
I would highly recommend it to all Camus fans. This is the kind of book that will stay with the reader for a very long time.
February 12, 2022
این کتاب سرگذشت پسر بچهای یتیم است که از کودکی در فقر زندگی میکند. گفته شده این کتاب زندگی خود کامو هست که بخاطر فوتش نیمه رها میشه.
June 16, 2015
Who knew I would be reading Camus' last novel as though it was his first? In this world of the passed away French-Algiers, the present and past are blurred, as a man recalls his childhood, and the voice of the third-person narrator is so close, it might as well be first-person. This harrowing account of a fatherless boy living in poverty is so pure that it's perfect in its stimulation. How can an author who grew so popular for his structural peculiarity in The Stranger, bring us such a completely different, yet equally exceptional and admirable style?
The trajectory of this novel is reminiscent of the Márquez novel and its winding sentences and comma over usage, but instead of the parody and magical reality (as Márquez would put it), this is a novel of serious tones and contemplative prose.
Algeria separated from France after the Algerian War, as a result, many young men, "First Men," lost their fathers to war. Albert Camus was one of them, and this story he tells is more personal than his others. Camus believed in a multicultural Algeria, where European-Algerians and African-Algerians could live in one accord and have the same rights. Once the war began, he didn't want to advocate for his fellow European-Algerians in his writing, so he was shunned by the French literati, and he didn't want to speak on behalf of the African-Algerians, for they were ideologue-rebels, so he chose to remain quiet. I know now that I not only like the writer-Camus, but I respect the man-Camus.
Camus died in a car wreck before this manuscript could be published, and the unedited version was retrieved from his car. When he died, he was "isolated and subject to attacks from all sides designed to destroy the man and the artist so that his ideas would have no impact." Is economic freedom and advantages for all an agenda worth fighting for? Camus was certainly an advocate for the poor and down-trodden, as is clear from the portraits drawn in this novel of a society of Frenchmen: Arabs and Europeans. The complexities and absurdities of cultural and ethnic war can be found within succinct dialogue like this one:
"My father would never have published this manuscript," his daughter wrote, "because he was a very reserved man and would no doubt have masked his own feelings far more in its final version." Jacques Cormery is Camus, this is clear: a man in love with discovery and books, a man who loves his slightly-deaf and uneducated mother deeply and longs for her affection; a young man raised by two hard-working women: grandmother and mother; a man who never knew and misses his father; a man who escaped to France because of war, and misses his childhood home (Algeria). I enjoyed the reverence given to women in this novel.
I started the novel thinking that it would have a similar texture to Suite Française, but while they were both published posthumously in their unfinished versions, this work has the essence of a novel complete. You don't get a clear sense of Jacques' trajectory when as a forty-year old, he begins the book, seeking information about his veteran father, and you don't get the sense of an ending for him, but you get a clear portrait of his mind's eye: you see him realize himself and his country through history, and this self-consciousness as an ending is always impressive. There is anguish and perplexity here, and yet there remains the beauty of introspection.
Wandering through the night of the years in the land of oblivion where each one is the first man, where he had to bring himself up, without a father, having never known those moments when a father would call his son, after waiting for him to reach the age of listening, to tell him the family's secret, or a sorrow of long ago or the experience of his life…like all the men born in this country who, one by one, try to learn to live without roots and without faith, and today all of them are threatened with eternal anonymity…
The trajectory of this novel is reminiscent of the Márquez novel and its winding sentences and comma over usage, but instead of the parody and magical reality (as Márquez would put it), this is a novel of serious tones and contemplative prose.
Algeria separated from France after the Algerian War, as a result, many young men, "First Men," lost their fathers to war. Albert Camus was one of them, and this story he tells is more personal than his others. Camus believed in a multicultural Algeria, where European-Algerians and African-Algerians could live in one accord and have the same rights. Once the war began, he didn't want to advocate for his fellow European-Algerians in his writing, so he was shunned by the French literati, and he didn't want to speak on behalf of the African-Algerians, for they were ideologue-rebels, so he chose to remain quiet. I know now that I not only like the writer-Camus, but I respect the man-Camus.
Camus died in a car wreck before this manuscript could be published, and the unedited version was retrieved from his car. When he died, he was "isolated and subject to attacks from all sides designed to destroy the man and the artist so that his ideas would have no impact." Is economic freedom and advantages for all an agenda worth fighting for? Camus was certainly an advocate for the poor and down-trodden, as is clear from the portraits drawn in this novel of a society of Frenchmen: Arabs and Europeans. The complexities and absurdities of cultural and ethnic war can be found within succinct dialogue like this one:
'Oh, me, I'm staying, and to the end. Whatever happens, I'm staying. I've sent my family to Algiers, and I'll croak here. They don't understand that in Paris. Besides us, you know who're the only ones who can understand it?'
'The Arabs.'
'Exactly. We were made to understand each other. Fools and brutes like us, but with the same blood of men. We'll kill each other for a little longer, cut off each other's balls and torture each other a bit. And then we'll go back to living as men together. The country wants it that way.'
"My father would never have published this manuscript," his daughter wrote, "because he was a very reserved man and would no doubt have masked his own feelings far more in its final version." Jacques Cormery is Camus, this is clear: a man in love with discovery and books, a man who loves his slightly-deaf and uneducated mother deeply and longs for her affection; a young man raised by two hard-working women: grandmother and mother; a man who never knew and misses his father; a man who escaped to France because of war, and misses his childhood home (Algeria). I enjoyed the reverence given to women in this novel.
I started the novel thinking that it would have a similar texture to Suite Française, but while they were both published posthumously in their unfinished versions, this work has the essence of a novel complete. You don't get a clear sense of Jacques' trajectory when as a forty-year old, he begins the book, seeking information about his veteran father, and you don't get the sense of an ending for him, but you get a clear portrait of his mind's eye: you see him realize himself and his country through history, and this self-consciousness as an ending is always impressive. There is anguish and perplexity here, and yet there remains the beauty of introspection.
As if the history of men, that history that kept on plodding across one of its oldest territories while leaving so few traces on it, was evaporating under the constant sun with the memory of those who made it, reduced to paroxysms of violence and murder, to blazes of hatred, to torrents of blood, quickly swollen and quickly dried up, like the seasonal streams of the country. Now the night was rising from the land itself and began to engulf everything, the dead and the living, under the marvelous and ever-present sky.
May 6, 2023
I ordered Albert Camus’s The First Man as soon as it became available in 1995, and read it that week. A fan of what I think of as his fictional trilogy--The Stranger, The Plague, and The Fall--and much of his philosophy. I was eager to read it though I knew it was unfinished. It was a manuscript he was very much in the middle of working on, with marginalia for future reference. It was found in the car he crashed into a tree in 1960, when Camus died in a car crash in 1960, when he was 47, three years after he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. It was not published in French until 1994, and in English the next year.
Editors’ notes speak to the fact the novel is basically autofiction, probably not something the private Camus would have ever published in the form we see now. Notes that he scribbled suggest he would have made this story of growing-up more fictional after getting the story down. My hardcover edition is 288 pages, but there are appendices including notes on interleaves, and attached notes and sketches of what was yet to come.
What you need to know is that this is not just a bunch of notes, but a story of Camus’s growing up, an engaging tale, warm, humane, often touching.. The most intimate of Camus’s writings. I think it’s great, and recommend it to all Camus fans, especially. Four people figure importantly in his growing up; his quiet and illiterate mother that he loved; his demanding and harsh grandmother, a teacher that supported him all through his life, and his father, who was dead in the war when Camus was one year old. Camus grew up in poverty.
“Poverty is a fortress without drawbridges.”
“No, he would never know his father, who would continue to sleep over there, his face forever lost in the ashes. There was a mystery about that man, a mystery he had wanted to penetrate. But after all there was only the mystery of poverty that creates beings without names and without a past, that sends them into the vast throng of the nameless dead who made the world while they themselves were destroyed forever.”
After nearly forty years Jacques--the name Camus gives the main character--visits his father’s grave, where he has this realization:
“. . . in the strange dizziness of that moment, the statue every man eventually erects and that hardens in the fire of the years, into which he then creeps and there awaits its final crumbling – that statue was rapidly cracking, it was already collapsing. All that was left was this anguished heart, eager to live, rebelling against the deadly order of the world that had been with him for forty years, and still struggling against the wall that separated him from the secret of all life, wanting to go farther, to go beyond, and to discover, discover before dying, discover at last in order to be, just once to be, for a single second, but for ever.”
Camus highlights beautifully various vignettes such as his birth, his early and continuing success in school, his close relationship with his often silent, and illiterate, mother. And it’s a book about the omnipresence of war, and a meditation on the violence lurking in humans:
“There's always been war," said Veillard. "But people quickly get accustomed to peace. So they think it's normal. No, war is what's normal.”
And what it was like to grow up in poverty, raised by a single mother and grandmother after his father died (when Camus was one) during the war. Camus did well in school, but his family needed him to work, so he worked in a shipyard and other places at an early age, getting scholarships to pay for his schooling. One teacher he has a close relationship with he stays in contact with most of his adult life, a beautiful picture of a teacher-student relationship.
But maybe it is primarily a kind of quiet tribute to his mother, who raised him largely in silence:
“ . . . the warm, inward, and ambiguous mystery that now bathed him only deepened the everyday mystery of his mother's silence or her small smile when he entered the dining room at evening and, alone in the apartment, she had not lit the kerosene lamp, letting the night invade the room step by step, herself a darker denser form gazing pensively out the window, watching the brisk—but, for her, silent—activity of the street; and the child would stop on the doorsill, his heart heavy, full of a despairing love for his mother, and for something in his mother that did not belong or no longer belonged to the world and to the triviality of the days."
There’s a lot of great writing in this, what appears to be a first draft, a tender portrait of the future Nobel Prize winner. I really like it so much.
Editors’ notes speak to the fact the novel is basically autofiction, probably not something the private Camus would have ever published in the form we see now. Notes that he scribbled suggest he would have made this story of growing-up more fictional after getting the story down. My hardcover edition is 288 pages, but there are appendices including notes on interleaves, and attached notes and sketches of what was yet to come.
What you need to know is that this is not just a bunch of notes, but a story of Camus’s growing up, an engaging tale, warm, humane, often touching.. The most intimate of Camus’s writings. I think it’s great, and recommend it to all Camus fans, especially. Four people figure importantly in his growing up; his quiet and illiterate mother that he loved; his demanding and harsh grandmother, a teacher that supported him all through his life, and his father, who was dead in the war when Camus was one year old. Camus grew up in poverty.
“Poverty is a fortress without drawbridges.”
“No, he would never know his father, who would continue to sleep over there, his face forever lost in the ashes. There was a mystery about that man, a mystery he had wanted to penetrate. But after all there was only the mystery of poverty that creates beings without names and without a past, that sends them into the vast throng of the nameless dead who made the world while they themselves were destroyed forever.”
After nearly forty years Jacques--the name Camus gives the main character--visits his father’s grave, where he has this realization:
“. . . in the strange dizziness of that moment, the statue every man eventually erects and that hardens in the fire of the years, into which he then creeps and there awaits its final crumbling – that statue was rapidly cracking, it was already collapsing. All that was left was this anguished heart, eager to live, rebelling against the deadly order of the world that had been with him for forty years, and still struggling against the wall that separated him from the secret of all life, wanting to go farther, to go beyond, and to discover, discover before dying, discover at last in order to be, just once to be, for a single second, but for ever.”
Camus highlights beautifully various vignettes such as his birth, his early and continuing success in school, his close relationship with his often silent, and illiterate, mother. And it’s a book about the omnipresence of war, and a meditation on the violence lurking in humans:
“There's always been war," said Veillard. "But people quickly get accustomed to peace. So they think it's normal. No, war is what's normal.”
And what it was like to grow up in poverty, raised by a single mother and grandmother after his father died (when Camus was one) during the war. Camus did well in school, but his family needed him to work, so he worked in a shipyard and other places at an early age, getting scholarships to pay for his schooling. One teacher he has a close relationship with he stays in contact with most of his adult life, a beautiful picture of a teacher-student relationship.
But maybe it is primarily a kind of quiet tribute to his mother, who raised him largely in silence:
“ . . . the warm, inward, and ambiguous mystery that now bathed him only deepened the everyday mystery of his mother's silence or her small smile when he entered the dining room at evening and, alone in the apartment, she had not lit the kerosene lamp, letting the night invade the room step by step, herself a darker denser form gazing pensively out the window, watching the brisk—but, for her, silent—activity of the street; and the child would stop on the doorsill, his heart heavy, full of a despairing love for his mother, and for something in his mother that did not belong or no longer belonged to the world and to the triviality of the days."
There’s a lot of great writing in this, what appears to be a first draft, a tender portrait of the future Nobel Prize winner. I really like it so much.
May 20, 2023
هزاربار با خودم کلنجار رفتم که از وسطهای کتاب، دیگه یک خط در میون یا حتی چند خط در میون بخونمش تا تموم شه. یه دلیلش شاید اینه که خیلی حوصله برام نمونده تو این برهه از زندگیم. یه دلیلشم شاید اینه که وقت کمی برای خوندن کتابای کاغذیم مونده و دوست دارم تعداد زیادی از کتابای خیلی خوبم رو بتونم بخونم تو این مدت. یه دلیلشم میتونه این باشه که...
که این رمان سراسر توصیفه؛ و توصیف زیاد چیزیه که میتونه منو خیلی آزار بده. کامو تو این رمان ناتمام از اولین کلمه تا آخرین کلمه به توصیف پرداخته؛ توصیف حالات، توصیف مکانها، زمانها، آبوهوا، شرایط زندگی و اجتماعی و سیاسی و اقتصادی و....
اما چی شد که نتونستم زیاد به روند یک خط در میونی و چند خط در میونی خوندن ادامه بدم؟ چون نویسنده این رمان آلبر کاموئه! کامو منو هی گیر مینداخت تو جملات. دقیقا یکم بعد از تند تند خوندن متن یهو چشمم به قسمتی از کتاب میافتاد که تا یه مدتی ذهنمو درگیرش میکرد. این بشر درک واقعا کمنظیری از گذشته و حال و آینده جانها رسیده بوده.
حیف که مرگ امان نداد تا این کتاب رو تموم و چرخه عشق رو، شروع کنه. این متن ناقص شاید در نهایت در حد 3ستاره باشه؛ اونم به نسبت اینکه از اخرین نوشتههای کامویی بوده که قبلا بیگانه و سقوط و طاعون رو نوشته بوده. نکته جالب اینه که شاید کامو اگه این اثر رو کامل میکرد شاید انقدر توصیفی نمیموند؛ شایدم برعکس، حتی بیشترم توصیفی میشد. ولی چیزی که از دستنوشتههای انتهایی کتاب که در حد یادداشت و طرح بود، میشد برداشت کرد اینه که، این نوشته تازه طرح و مقدمهای برای یک روایت خیلی طولانی تر بوده. اگه کامو قصد نداشته تو سبک توصیفی کتاب و حجم رمان تجدید نظر کنه، این 300 و خردهای صفحه، فکر کنم 1000 صفحه میشد. همین چیزا هم این رمان رو برای من سخت عجیب میکنه. از یک طرف سخت ملالآور و اذیت کننده و از طرفی، سخت نامتعارف و بدیع از طرف کامویی که کوتاه مینوشت به نسبت. واقعا ای کاش زنده میموند و از عشقی مینوشت که راهحل پوچی زندگی و روش طغیان اصلی انسام در مقابل این پوچی، میدونستش...
که این رمان سراسر توصیفه؛ و توصیف زیاد چیزیه که میتونه منو خیلی آزار بده. کامو تو این رمان ناتمام از اولین کلمه تا آخرین کلمه به توصیف پرداخته؛ توصیف حالات، توصیف مکانها، زمانها، آبوهوا، شرایط زندگی و اجتماعی و سیاسی و اقتصادی و....
اما چی شد که نتونستم زیاد به روند یک خط در میونی و چند خط در میونی خوندن ادامه بدم؟ چون نویسنده این رمان آلبر کاموئه! کامو منو هی گیر مینداخت تو جملات. دقیقا یکم بعد از تند تند خوندن متن یهو چشمم به قسمتی از کتاب میافتاد که تا یه مدتی ذهنمو درگیرش میکرد. این بشر درک واقعا کمنظیری از گذشته و حال و آینده جانها رسیده بوده.
حیف که مرگ امان نداد تا این کتاب رو تموم و چرخه عشق رو، شروع کنه. این متن ناقص شاید در نهایت در حد 3ستاره باشه؛ اونم به نسبت اینکه از اخرین نوشتههای کامویی بوده که قبلا بیگانه و سقوط و طاعون رو نوشته بوده. نکته جالب اینه که شاید کامو اگه این اثر رو کامل میکرد شاید انقدر توصیفی نمیموند؛ شایدم برعکس، حتی بیشترم توصیفی میشد. ولی چیزی که از دستنوشتههای انتهایی کتاب که در حد یادداشت و طرح بود، میشد برداشت کرد اینه که، این نوشته تازه طرح و مقدمهای برای یک روایت خیلی طولانی تر بوده. اگه کامو قصد نداشته تو سبک توصیفی کتاب و حجم رمان تجدید نظر کنه، این 300 و خردهای صفحه، فکر کنم 1000 صفحه میشد. همین چیزا هم این رمان رو برای من سخت عجیب میکنه. از یک طرف سخت ملالآور و اذیت کننده و از طرفی، سخت نامتعارف و بدیع از طرف کامویی که کوتاه مینوشت به نسبت. واقعا ای کاش زنده میموند و از عشقی مینوشت که راهحل پوچی زندگی و روش طغیان اصلی انسام در مقابل این پوچی، میدونستش...
September 16, 2019
Review to follow.
July 24, 2020
" او را بگو که میخواست از سرزمینی بی نام و نشان، از مردُمان و خانواده ای بی نام و نشان بگریزد ولی در وجود او چیزی بود که با سماجت و پیوسته گمنامی و بی نام و نشانی میطلبید...او هم جزء همین قبیله بود..."
آدم اول ، زندگینامه ی خودنوشت کاموست. اثری که نویسنده اش امیدوار بود بهترین نوشته و شاهکارش باشد اما به دلیل مرگش ناتمام ماند.
کتاب آدم اول روایتی رئال از زندگی پسربچهای است که در خانواده ای بسیار فقیر با سطح اجتماعی و فرهنگی بسیار پایین که درک درستی از دنیا و مافیها ندارند و به همین دلیل توانایی آموختن چیز زیادی به او را ندارند بزرگ میشود.علاوه بر این، او در یکسالگی پدر خود را نیز در جنگ از دست میدهد و عملا هیچ الگو و پشتیبان فکری و روحی در زندگی ندارد و این مسئله، شروع دغدغهی خودشناسی در کودکی و بحران هویت او از کودکی تا میانسالی است...
به خاطر فقر خانواده، آلبر مجبور بود پس از پایان دبستان کارگری پیشه کند. اما آموزگارش به استعداد وی پی میبرد و او را به امتحان کمک هزینه بگیران و ادامهٔ تحصیل تشویق میکند. او در این آزمون پذیرفته میشود و به هزینهٔ دولت وارد دبیرستان میشود.
در آن زمان تحصیلات متوسطه در الجزیره، اختصاص به ثروتمندان داشت. به همین جهت، از این پس کامو در دو دنیای جداگانه زندگی میکند. روز، در کنار اغنیا وارد دنیای اندیشه میشود و شب، بر عکس، در کنار فقرا در جهانی دشوار گام میزند....
کامو جهان و بیدادگری موجود در آن را نمیپذیرد زیرا چنین وضعیتی نفی انسانیت میباشد.دغدغه ی عدالت در بیشترآثار کامو نمایان است. آشکارترین نمود بیعدالتی در این اثر را در زندگی رنجبار بومیان عرب الجزایر میدید. اکثریتی محروم و ستمدیده که خود، کودکی اش را در میان آنان سپری کرده بود و مناسبات استعماری آنها را به "شهروندان درجه دو" بدل کرده بود... فقر، احترام به رنج و همدردی با بیچارگان را به او آموخته بود...
کامو، عقیده داشت که انسان ها در دنیایی بی معنی زندگی می کنند اما این عقیده، هیچ وقت برای او به مانعی برای لذت بردن از زندگی تبدیل نشد.او طبعی پرجنب و جوش داشت و میکوشید جای کمبودهای زندگی را با تفریح و ورزش پر کند. هر روز در آفتاب داغ دنبال توپ فوتبال میدوید. آب و هوای کویری، هرم آفتاب، خاک داغ بیابان، بوی بدنهای سوخته و عرقآلود در جسم و جان او تهنشین شد و بعدها به تمام کارهای ادبی او نشت کرد....
با وجود اینکه کامو یکی از متفکران مکتب اگزیستانسیالیسم شناخته میشود، اما خودش همواره این برچسب خاص را رد میکرد و در مصاحبهای هرگونه همراهی با مکاتب ایدئولوژیک را تکذیب کرده و میگوید: «نه، من اگزیستانسیالیست نیستم. هم سارتر و هم من همیشه متعجب بودهایم که چرا نام ما را پهلوی هم میگذارند.»
"او چیزی نبود مگر همین دل پردرد که ولع زندگی داشت و ب�� ضد نظام مرگبار دنیا شوریده بود و چهل سال بود که با او بود و همواره با قوّتی یکسان بر دیواری میکوبید که بین او و راز زندگانی حائل شده بود و می خواست دورتر برود ، فراتر برود و بداند ، پیش از مردن بداند و یک بار هم که شده، یک ثانیه هم که شده، سرانجام برای بودن بداند...اما تا ابد..."
آدم اول ، زندگینامه ی خودنوشت کاموست. اثری که نویسنده اش امیدوار بود بهترین نوشته و شاهکارش باشد اما به دلیل مرگش ناتمام ماند.
کتاب آدم اول روایتی رئال از زندگی پسربچهای است که در خانواده ای بسیار فقیر با سطح اجتماعی و فرهنگی بسیار پایین که درک درستی از دنیا و مافیها ندارند و به همین دلیل توانایی آموختن چیز زیادی به او را ندارند بزرگ میشود.علاوه بر این، او در یکسالگی پدر خود را نیز در جنگ از دست میدهد و عملا هیچ الگو و پشتیبان فکری و روحی در زندگی ندارد و این مسئله، شروع دغدغهی خودشناسی در کودکی و بحران هویت او از کودکی تا میانسالی است...
به خاطر فقر خانواده، آلبر مجبور بود پس از پایان دبستان کارگری پیشه کند. اما آموزگارش به استعداد وی پی میبرد و او را به امتحان کمک هزینه بگیران و ادامهٔ تحصیل تشویق میکند. او در این آزمون پذیرفته میشود و به هزینهٔ دولت وارد دبیرستان میشود.
در آن زمان تحصیلات متوسطه در الجزیره، اختصاص به ثروتمندان داشت. به همین جهت، از این پس کامو در دو دنیای جداگانه زندگی میکند. روز، در کنار اغنیا وارد دنیای اندیشه میشود و شب، بر عکس، در کنار فقرا در جهانی دشوار گام میزند....
کامو جهان و بیدادگری موجود در آن را نمیپذیرد زیرا چنین وضعیتی نفی انسانیت میباشد.دغدغه ی عدالت در بیشترآثار کامو نمایان است. آشکارترین نمود بیعدالتی در این اثر را در زندگی رنجبار بومیان عرب الجزایر میدید. اکثریتی محروم و ستمدیده که خود، کودکی اش را در میان آنان سپری کرده بود و مناسبات استعماری آنها را به "شهروندان درجه دو" بدل کرده بود... فقر، احترام به رنج و همدردی با بیچارگان را به او آموخته بود...
کامو، عقیده داشت که انسان ها در دنیایی بی معنی زندگی می کنند اما این عقیده، هیچ وقت برای او به مانعی برای لذت بردن از زندگی تبدیل نشد.او طبعی پرجنب و جوش داشت و میکوشید جای کمبودهای زندگی را با تفریح و ورزش پر کند. هر روز در آفتاب داغ دنبال توپ فوتبال میدوید. آب و هوای کویری، هرم آفتاب، خاک داغ بیابان، بوی بدنهای سوخته و عرقآلود در جسم و جان او تهنشین شد و بعدها به تمام کارهای ادبی او نشت کرد....
با وجود اینکه کامو یکی از متفکران مکتب اگزیستانسیالیسم شناخته میشود، اما خودش همواره این برچسب خاص را رد میکرد و در مصاحبهای هرگونه همراهی با مکاتب ایدئولوژیک را تکذیب کرده و میگوید: «نه، من اگزیستانسیالیست نیستم. هم سارتر و هم من همیشه متعجب بودهایم که چرا نام ما را پهلوی هم میگذارند.»
"او چیزی نبود مگر همین دل پردرد که ولع زندگی داشت و ب�� ضد نظام مرگبار دنیا شوریده بود و چهل سال بود که با او بود و همواره با قوّتی یکسان بر دیواری میکوبید که بین او و راز زندگانی حائل شده بود و می خواست دورتر برود ، فراتر برود و بداند ، پیش از مردن بداند و یک بار هم که شده، یک ثانیه هم که شده، سرانجام برای بودن بداند...اما تا ابد..."
July 14, 2020
"There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts . . ."
*
The sea was gentle and warm, the sun fell lightly on their soaked heads, and the glory of the light filled their young bodies with a joy that made them cry out incessantly. They reigned over life and over the sea, and, like nobles certain that their riches were limitless, they heedlessly consumed the most gorgeous of this world's offerings.
*
life in its entirety was a misfortune you could not struggle against but could only endure.
*
[...] and now the year consisted of nothing but a series of hasty awakenings and hurried dismal days.
*
From the darkness within him sprang that famished ardor, that mad passion for living which had always been part of him and even today was still unchanged, making still more bitter—in the midst of the family he had rediscovered and facing the images of his childhood—the sudden terrible feeling that the time of his youth was slipping away, like the woman he had loved, oh yes, he had loved her with a great love, with all his heart and his body too, yes, with her it was a fervent desire, and when he withdrew from her with a great silent cry at the moment of orgasm he was in passionate harmony with his world, and he had loved her for her beauty and for the openhearted and despairing passion for life that was hers, and that made her deny, deny that time could pass, though she knew it was passing at that very moment, not wanting people to be able one day to say she was still young, but rather to stay young, always young; she burst into sobs one day when, laughing, he told her youth was passing and the days were waning: "Oh no, oh no," she said through her tears, "I'm so in love with love," and, intelligent and outstanding in so many ways, perhaps just because she truly was intelligent and outstanding, she rejected the world as it was.
*
The sea was gentle and warm, the sun fell lightly on their soaked heads, and the glory of the light filled their young bodies with a joy that made them cry out incessantly. They reigned over life and over the sea, and, like nobles certain that their riches were limitless, they heedlessly consumed the most gorgeous of this world's offerings.
*
life in its entirety was a misfortune you could not struggle against but could only endure.
*
[...] and now the year consisted of nothing but a series of hasty awakenings and hurried dismal days.
*
From the darkness within him sprang that famished ardor, that mad passion for living which had always been part of him and even today was still unchanged, making still more bitter—in the midst of the family he had rediscovered and facing the images of his childhood—the sudden terrible feeling that the time of his youth was slipping away, like the woman he had loved, oh yes, he had loved her with a great love, with all his heart and his body too, yes, with her it was a fervent desire, and when he withdrew from her with a great silent cry at the moment of orgasm he was in passionate harmony with his world, and he had loved her for her beauty and for the openhearted and despairing passion for life that was hers, and that made her deny, deny that time could pass, though she knew it was passing at that very moment, not wanting people to be able one day to say she was still young, but rather to stay young, always young; she burst into sobs one day when, laughing, he told her youth was passing and the days were waning: "Oh no, oh no," she said through her tears, "I'm so in love with love," and, intelligent and outstanding in so many ways, perhaps just because she truly was intelligent and outstanding, she rejected the world as it was.
July 21, 2021
This is the first unfinished novel written by Camus that I have read and was also his last. I know of his philosophy but this novel was a departure from that. It was somewhat inspiring especially the relationship the main character has with his teacher, but overall it was a hard book to "want" to finish. It did not hold my attention except during moments of great descriptions of various characters and the landscape of Algeria. I am a notoriously slow reader because I like to catch all the nuance and flavor of a book, but this one was dry and repetitive. It could be the fact that Camus wrote extremely long paragraphs throughout the entire book. Some paragraphs were a page and a half long. I would say some sentence and paragraph variety would be in order for him if I was his editor. As a novel, the storyline was overwrought with repetitive motifs and could have done with some editing of the length of chapters in it to cut down on the retelling of the already established plot. I stumbled upon this book in a used book store which is how I usually find new books to read. I will probably stumble elsewhere than the Camus section in the future.
June 29, 2024
حس میکنم کامو بیشتر به خاطر دید فلسفیش معروفه ولی واقعا اجحافه در حقش اگر که از قدرت نوشتن و استفاده هنرمندانه و ظریفش از صنایع ادبی برای بیان آنچه که در ذهنش میگذره حرفی نزنیم. کامو با کلمات جادو میکنه، تو این کتاب بیشتر از هر چیزی شیفتهی توصیفاتی شدم که کامو میکرد،
همه چیز واضح و زنده جلوی چشمام اتفاق می افتاد انگار که کتاب رو نمیخوندم که داشتم زندگیش میکردم، انگار آدمای توی کتاب و میشناسم جاهایی که بوده بودم و کارهایی که کرده و من انجام دادم، کم پیش میاد که کتابی منو انقدر با خودش همراه کنه. شده بودم پسر بچه ای فقیر در کوچه پس کوچه های تفته از گرمای الجزیره.
کتاب طولانی ای نبود ولی هر خطش توصیفی بود از محیط اطراف، احساسات و آدما یا تفسیری از حالت درونی و برای درک و جذبش نیاز به تمرکز بود، چون حواس پنجگانمو به کار میگرفت. زیاد پیش میومد در یک پاراگراف همزمان حس بویایی، لامسه، شنوایی، چشایی وبیناییم و درگیر کنه. نظراتی خوندم که همین موضوع رو خسته کننده میدونستن ولی برای من به شخصه کلاس درس بود
خیلی دلم میخواست این کتاب به قلم خود کامو تموم میشد، حیف که نشد...
مطمئنم بازم میخونمش و احتمالا هایلایت های توصیفیشو بارها مرور میکنم و لذت میبرم.
خیلی سخته بخوام از بخش هایی که هایلایت کردم انتخاب کنم از بس که زیادن و همه قشنگ. ولی یه جایی بود که کامو از حس خودش به کتابا میگفت و منم نسبت به نوشته های خودش همین حسو دارم بنابراین ترجیح میدم این قسمتو بنویسم :
«...از کتاب هایی خوششان میآمد که صفحه های آنها پر از حروف ریزی باشد که در سطرهای تنگ هم چیده روان باشند و لبالب پر از کلمه و جمله باشد، مانند سینی های گنده غذای دهاتیان که آدم میتواند هرچه میخواهد تا هر مدتی که میخواهد بخورد بی آنکه غذا ته بکشد و فقط همین سینی هاست که هر اشتهای پایان ناپذیر را فرو می نشاند. در فکر سلیقه به خرج دادن
نبودند، هیچ نمی دانستند و می خواستند همه چیز بدانند. ...»
حافظه فقرا از حافظه ثروتمندان کم مایه تر است، در مکان مرجع های کم تری دارد چون فقرا محل زندگی خود را کمتر ترک میکنند، در زمان هم با آن زندگی یکنواخت و تیره مرجع های کمتری دارد. البته، حافظه ای هم هست که در دل جای دارد و می گویند از همه مطمئن تر است اما دل را هم رنج و کار فرسوده می سازد و در زیر بار خستگی زودتر فراموش میکند زمان از دست رفته را فقط ثروتمندان باز می یابند. برای فقرا فقط نشانه های مبهمی در راه مرگ به جای می گذارد. وانگهی برای آنکه بتوانند طاقت بیاورند نباید گذشته را زیاد به خاطر آورند، بلکه باید به همان چیزهای روز به روز و ساعت به ساعت بچسبند...
همه چیز واضح و زنده جلوی چشمام اتفاق می افتاد انگار که کتاب رو نمیخوندم که داشتم زندگیش میکردم، انگار آدمای توی کتاب و میشناسم جاهایی که بوده بودم و کارهایی که کرده و من انجام دادم، کم پیش میاد که کتابی منو انقدر با خودش همراه کنه. شده بودم پسر بچه ای فقیر در کوچه پس کوچه های تفته از گرمای الجزیره.
کتاب طولانی ای نبود ولی هر خطش توصیفی بود از محیط اطراف، احساسات و آدما یا تفسیری از حالت درونی و برای درک و جذبش نیاز به تمرکز بود، چون حواس پنجگانمو به کار میگرفت. زیاد پیش میومد در یک پاراگراف همزمان حس بویایی، لامسه، شنوایی، چشایی وبیناییم و درگیر کنه. نظراتی خوندم که همین موضوع رو خسته کننده میدونستن ولی برای من به شخصه کلاس درس بود
خیلی دلم میخواست این کتاب به قلم خود کامو تموم میشد، حیف که نشد...
مطمئنم بازم میخونمش و احتمالا هایلایت های توصیفیشو بارها مرور میکنم و لذت میبرم.
خیلی سخته بخوام از بخش هایی که هایلایت کردم انتخاب کنم از بس که زیادن و همه قشنگ. ولی یه جایی بود که کامو از حس خودش به کتابا میگفت و منم نسبت به نوشته های خودش همین حسو دارم بنابراین ترجیح میدم این قسمتو بنویسم :
«...از کتاب هایی خوششان میآمد که صفحه های آنها پر از حروف ریزی باشد که در سطرهای تنگ هم چیده روان باشند و لبالب پر از کلمه و جمله باشد، مانند سینی های گنده غذای دهاتیان که آدم میتواند هرچه میخواهد تا هر مدتی که میخواهد بخورد بی آنکه غذا ته بکشد و فقط همین سینی هاست که هر اشتهای پایان ناپذیر را فرو می نشاند. در فکر سلیقه به خرج دادن
نبودند، هیچ نمی دانستند و می خواستند همه چیز بدانند. ...»
حافظه فقرا از حافظه ثروتمندان کم مایه تر است، در مکان مرجع های کم تری دارد چون فقرا محل زندگی خود را کمتر ترک میکنند، در زمان هم با آن زندگی یکنواخت و تیره مرجع های کمتری دارد. البته، حافظه ای هم هست که در دل جای دارد و می گویند از همه مطمئن تر است اما دل را هم رنج و کار فرسوده می سازد و در زیر بار خستگی زودتر فراموش میکند زمان از دست رفته را فقط ثروتمندان باز می یابند. برای فقرا فقط نشانه های مبهمی در راه مرگ به جای می گذارد. وانگهی برای آنکه بتوانند طاقت بیاورند نباید گذشته را زیاد به خاطر آورند، بلکه باید به همان چیزهای روز به روز و ساعت به ساعت بچسبند...
March 13, 2017
I enjoyed every single word of this book. This is a MUST read to Camus' fans!
November 25, 2024
Es una obra profundamente emotiva y conmovedora. Pero está incompleta. Está incompleta, sí, porque Camus murió cuando la estaba trabajando. Fue en un accidente de tránsito, y el manuscrito fue encontrado en el auto accidentado. Fue en 1960 y Camus ya era un escritor consagrado, ya había ganado el Nobel. Por eso falta quizás la mitad de la obra, la mitad que le faltaba por narrar de su propia vida, ya que alcanzó a contar hasta su adolescencia, y Camus murió a los 46. Y es que esta es una novela casi autobiográfica, de no ser por la voluntad de ficción al cambiar los nombres y narrar en tercera persona. Es, entonces, una autoficción. Aquí Jacques, el alter ego de Camus, es un muchacho que nace en Argelia, de padres colonos franceses, en la primera década del siglo XX. Una época llena de conflictos y cambios, de guerras, pobreza y desesperación (en unas clases más que en otras). Albert/Jacques es de aquellos menos favorecidos, que vive en la escasez y el trabajo duro para poder comer. Su familia es pobre, él se ve siendo el más pobre de la escuela, aún con su ascendencia francesa es pobre y eso pesa. Su padre, al que no llegó a conocer, muere herido por un obus durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, y este libro es en parte una búsqueda de ese padre, de ese hombre, de ese primer hombre. Su madre, para quien escribe este libro que no podrá leer ya porque ha muerto pero jamás podría hacerlo porque era analfabeta, era ese pilar silencioso, resignado pero enorme que sostenía su espíritu. Un espíritu sin Dios pero con hambre de vida. Así se describe en las anotaciones que no logró desarrollar y que incluye esta edición. En esas notas se puede ver el proceso y el esqueleto de la novela, el cómo la va construyendo a partir de anécdotas personales, imágenes, sensaciones y reflexiones profundas de la condición humana, o de sí mismo. En esto era maestro Camus. Él mismo es tan transparente en sus libros que parecerían equivocadas las palabras de su maestro de escuela en una carta que se incluye en esta edición: siempre fuiste cauteloso de revelar tu interior. Quizás en su trato cotidiano sería así Camus, pero en este (y por extensión narrativa en sus otros libros), el autor se muestra en su composición más profunda y por eso es conmovedor. Y también porque no es un libro sensiblero ni que persigue el horror o la lástima, sino todo lo contrario: su intento es siempre mostrar lo maravilloso de la vida en medio de la adverso: el poder del amor y del arte (que sería la misma fuerza vital) representados en su madre, su maestro de escuela y todos aquellos a quienes amó, según sus palabras (libros y fútbol incluidos). Una de las partes más conmovedoras de toda la narración es la relación con su maestro de escuela, a quien estaría eternamente agradecido por haber sido el primero que creyó en él y le abrió las puertas del mundo, al poner atención en él, cultivarle viendo que poseía talento e inteligencia, y prepararlo para una beca en la escuela secundaria, lo cual le cambió la vida. La importancia de un mentor.
En suma, un libro bello y potente en su incompletitud.
En suma, un libro bello y potente en su incompletitud.
January 30, 2019
Parlerò insomma di quelli che amavo. E di nient’altro. Gioia profonda.
Inevitabilmente frammentario, incompleto e pieno di spunti ancora da approfondire, il romanzo incompiuto di Camus, pubblicato postumo, contiene pagine di una bellezza abbagliante ed emozionante.
Jacques Cormery decide a quarant’anni di sapere qualcosa di più sul padre, mai conosciuto perché morto nel corso della battaglia della Marna. Un padre che di fronte agli orrori della guerra disse: “un uomo non fa queste cose, un uomo si trattiene”. Che cosa rimane di quella vita oscura? Nulla, un ricordo impalpabile – la cenere impalpabile di un’ala di farfalla bruciata nell’incendio della foresta.
Il romanzo è il viaggio fisico di ritorno in Algeria di Jacques Cormery - ovvero Albert Camus – ed è anche un viaggio a ritroso nel tempo, per ritrovare il paese natale. E’ un atto d’amore verso la terra della giovinezza, splendida e terrificante, e verso tutte le persone che l’hanno popolata. L’amico Pierre, lo zio, la nonna, il maestro di scuola. E soprattutto verso la madre: sorridente, silenziosa, sorda, dolce, analfabeta, tenace, bellissima, un Myskin ignorante.
L’amore dei corpi sin dalla più tenera infanzia, della loro bellezza che lo faceva ridere di gioia sulle spiagge, del loro tepore che lo attirava senza sosta, senza un’idea precisa, animalmente, non per possederli, cosa che non avrebbe saputo fare, ma semplicemente per entrare nel loro raggio d’azione, per appoggiare la spalla a quella del compagno, con un grande senso di abbandono e di fiducia, e il sentirsi quasi venir meno quando nella calca di un tram una mano di donna toccava a lungo la sua, il desiderio, sì, di vivere, di vivere ancora, di mescolarsi a ciò che la terra aveva di più caldo, ed era questo che senza saperlo si aspettava da sua madre, e che non otteneva o forse non osava ottenere.
La madre è la figura centrale ed è il punto di partenza di questo percorso. Il quarantenne Jacques, in una Algeri già bersaglio di ripetuti attentati, poco prima dello scoppio di un’altra guerra, quella d’indipendenza, visita per prima la madre settantenne, che lo attende sempre al solito posto, nella solita casa.
“Sei andata dal parrucchiere,” disse Jacques. Lei sorrise, con l’aria di una bambina colta in fallo: “Sì, be’, arrivavi tu.”
Dopo l’assegnazione del premio Nobel nel 1957, incalzato dalle domande sulla guerra d’Algeria, Camus aveva detto: “In questo stesso momento ad Algeri si gettano bombe sui tram. Mia madre potrebbe essere su uno di quei tram. Se questa è la giustizia, preferisco mia madre”.
Tutti i valori per cui aveva vissuto sarebbero morti d’inutilità. E che cosa avrebbe conservato valore? Il silenzio di sua madre. Davanti a lei deponeva le armi.
Inevitabilmente frammentario, incompleto e pieno di spunti ancora da approfondire, il romanzo incompiuto di Camus, pubblicato postumo, contiene pagine di una bellezza abbagliante ed emozionante.
Jacques Cormery decide a quarant’anni di sapere qualcosa di più sul padre, mai conosciuto perché morto nel corso della battaglia della Marna. Un padre che di fronte agli orrori della guerra disse: “un uomo non fa queste cose, un uomo si trattiene”. Che cosa rimane di quella vita oscura? Nulla, un ricordo impalpabile – la cenere impalpabile di un’ala di farfalla bruciata nell’incendio della foresta.
Il romanzo è il viaggio fisico di ritorno in Algeria di Jacques Cormery - ovvero Albert Camus – ed è anche un viaggio a ritroso nel tempo, per ritrovare il paese natale. E’ un atto d’amore verso la terra della giovinezza, splendida e terrificante, e verso tutte le persone che l’hanno popolata. L’amico Pierre, lo zio, la nonna, il maestro di scuola. E soprattutto verso la madre: sorridente, silenziosa, sorda, dolce, analfabeta, tenace, bellissima, un Myskin ignorante.
L’amore dei corpi sin dalla più tenera infanzia, della loro bellezza che lo faceva ridere di gioia sulle spiagge, del loro tepore che lo attirava senza sosta, senza un’idea precisa, animalmente, non per possederli, cosa che non avrebbe saputo fare, ma semplicemente per entrare nel loro raggio d’azione, per appoggiare la spalla a quella del compagno, con un grande senso di abbandono e di fiducia, e il sentirsi quasi venir meno quando nella calca di un tram una mano di donna toccava a lungo la sua, il desiderio, sì, di vivere, di vivere ancora, di mescolarsi a ciò che la terra aveva di più caldo, ed era questo che senza saperlo si aspettava da sua madre, e che non otteneva o forse non osava ottenere.
La madre è la figura centrale ed è il punto di partenza di questo percorso. Il quarantenne Jacques, in una Algeri già bersaglio di ripetuti attentati, poco prima dello scoppio di un’altra guerra, quella d’indipendenza, visita per prima la madre settantenne, che lo attende sempre al solito posto, nella solita casa.
“Sei andata dal parrucchiere,” disse Jacques. Lei sorrise, con l’aria di una bambina colta in fallo: “Sì, be’, arrivavi tu.”
Dopo l’assegnazione del premio Nobel nel 1957, incalzato dalle domande sulla guerra d’Algeria, Camus aveva detto: “In questo stesso momento ad Algeri si gettano bombe sui tram. Mia madre potrebbe essere su uno di quei tram. Se questa è la giustizia, preferisco mia madre”.
Tutti i valori per cui aveva vissuto sarebbero morti d’inutilità. E che cosa avrebbe conservato valore? Il silenzio di sua madre. Davanti a lei deponeva le armi.
June 29, 2022
کتاب، یه نوشتهی ناقص و ناتمامه از داستانی که بیشتر میشه بهش زندگینامه گفت، و یا شاید هم زندگینامهای که مختصری شورِ داستان باهاش عجین شده!
از سطرهای اول کتاب باخودم گفتم این شخصیت اول داستان، خودِ کامواِ. و هرچی که بیشتر پیش میرفتم مطمئنتر میشدم. کتاب، داستانِ زندگی کامو از زمان بچگی و وقتیه که تو الجزایر بوده. وقتی کتاب یادداشتهای کامو رو میخوندم فهمیدم که مادرش چقدر براش مهم بوده، اما توی این کتاب کامو بهصورت کاملا واضح و روشنی از مادرش حرف زده و تونسته این حسش رو به مخاطب برسونه.
کتاب خیلی جزء به جزء حوادث و اتفاقات رو روایت میکنه و همین باعث میشه برای مخاطب کمی کسل کننده باشه ولی خب باید اینو هم در نظر داشت که این کتاب به اتمام نرسیده و صرفا یه سری دستنوشته بوده که بعد از مرگ کامو، دخترش پیدا و منتشر کرده.
با تمام این تفاسیر، با تمامآ سختخوانیش، خوشحالم که تونستم بیشتر وارد زندگی کامو بشم :)
از سطرهای اول کتاب باخودم گفتم این شخصیت اول داستان، خودِ کامواِ. و هرچی که بیشتر پیش میرفتم مطمئنتر میشدم. کتاب، داستانِ زندگی کامو از زمان بچگی و وقتیه که تو الجزایر بوده. وقتی کتاب یادداشتهای کامو رو میخوندم فهمیدم که مادرش چقدر براش مهم بوده، اما توی این کتاب کامو بهصورت کاملا واضح و روشنی از مادرش حرف زده و تونسته این حسش رو به مخاطب برسونه.
کتاب خیلی جزء به جزء حوادث و اتفاقات رو روایت میکنه و همین باعث میشه برای مخاطب کمی کسل کننده باشه ولی خب باید اینو هم در نظر داشت که این کتاب به اتمام نرسیده و صرفا یه سری دستنوشته بوده که بعد از مرگ کامو، دخترش پیدا و منتشر کرده.
با تمام این تفاسیر، با تمامآ سختخوانیش، خوشحالم که تونستم بیشتر وارد زندگی کامو بشم :)
November 4, 2019
در مقدمه ی کتاب اشاره شده که دست نوشته های این کتاب پس از مرگ کامو در کیفش پیدا شده و 34 سال بعد دخترش این کتاب رو به چاپ رسونده.
این آخرین اثر به جا مونده از کامو که پیش از مرگش درگیر نوشتنش بوده، در واقع برگرفته از داستان حقیقی زندگی خودش بوده و معتقد بوده که این کتاب بهترین اثرش میشه.
کتاب روایتگر زندگی فردی به نام ژاک در دوران کودکی و چهل سالگیشه که به شرح سبک زندگیش، روحیاتش و عقیده هاش در مورد زندگی فقیرانه در الجزایر، اثرات مخرب و جبران ناپذیر جنگ و جایگاه اجتماعی میپردازه.
کتاب ناقص بوده و بخش های زیادی از دست نوشته ها توسط کامو علامت گذاری شده بوده که بعدها کامل بشه و در پاورقی ها به تمام اون قسمت ها اشاره شده. بخش هایی از داستان به خوبی بهش پرداخت شده و توصیفات جزئی هم حتی درنظر گرفته شده و بخشهایی به سرعت از موضوع عبور شده وجامعیت همیشگی کلام کامو رو در بر نداره.البته دربخش پیوست کتاب قسمتهایی از دست نوشته های پراکنده ی کامو آورده شده که به خواننده دردرک اثری که نویسنده تلاش در خلقش داشته، کمک میکنه.
اما به طور کل این عدم هماهنگی ها و ناقص بودن کتاب چنان نیست که تو ذوق زننده و کسل کننده باشه.
این آخرین اثر به جا مونده از کامو که پیش از مرگش درگیر نوشتنش بوده، در واقع برگرفته از داستان حقیقی زندگی خودش بوده و معتقد بوده که این کتاب بهترین اثرش میشه.
کتاب روایتگر زندگی فردی به نام ژاک در دوران کودکی و چهل سالگیشه که به شرح سبک زندگیش، روحیاتش و عقیده هاش در مورد زندگی فقیرانه در الجزایر، اثرات مخرب و جبران ناپذیر جنگ و جایگاه اجتماعی میپردازه.
کتاب ناقص بوده و بخش های زیادی از دست نوشته ها توسط کامو علامت گذاری شده بوده که بعدها کامل بشه و در پاورقی ها به تمام اون قسمت ها اشاره شده. بخش هایی از داستان به خوبی بهش پرداخت شده و توصیفات جزئی هم حتی درنظر گرفته شده و بخشهایی به سرعت از موضوع عبور شده وجامعیت همیشگی کلام کامو رو در بر نداره.البته دربخش پیوست کتاب قسمتهایی از دست نوشته های پراکنده ی کامو آورده شده که به خواننده دردرک اثری که نویسنده تلاش در خلقش داشته، کمک میکنه.
اما به طور کل این عدم هماهنگی ها و ناقص بودن کتاب چنان نیست که تو ذوق زننده و کسل کننده باشه.
February 22, 2016
Adds an unexpected dimension to Camus' philosophy: that it was written by a regular guy whose daily worries, ponderings, misgivings and regrets found him just as much as ours find us. That's of course a major point of his philosophy, that inherent flaws in the machine make regrets, worries, mistakes and absolute communion between people impossible, but gone in this work is the darkly ironic facade. This time we find reassurance in that Camus is as he was basically trying to convince us he was anyway (I think): just some guy.
January 7, 2023
آلبر کاموی عزیز
چهل و هفت سال عمر کردی و کتاب هایت از بیگانه و طاعون و سیزیف گرفته تا سقوط و مرگ خوش و کالیگولا و سوء تفاهم وغیره
همگی جزو آثار مورد علاقه ام قرار گرفتند
حتم داشتم که اگر 40 سال دیگر عمر میکردی، ده ها عنوان دیگر ازت جزو کتاب های مورد علاقه ام قرار می گرفت
روحت شاد و آسوده باد
چهل و هفت سال عمر کردی و کتاب هایت از بیگانه و طاعون و سیزیف گرفته تا سقوط و مرگ خوش و کالیگولا و سوء تفاهم وغیره
همگی جزو آثار مورد علاقه ام قرار گرفتند
حتم داشتم که اگر 40 سال دیگر عمر میکردی، ده ها عنوان دیگر ازت جزو کتاب های مورد علاقه ام قرار می گرفت
روحت شاد و آسوده باد
August 2, 2021
Left unfinished at the time of his death in 1960, The First Man was not even published in French until 1994 and David Hapgood published an English translation in 1995.
While this is still obviously a draft -- and it is some news that people like Albert Camus produced drafts and did not conjure up their work by magic -- there are the makings here of a psychological novel, and of the intense associations and memories of childhood.
The framing for all this is a man heading to France from Algeria in search of anything about his dead farther. And from there we see lovingly rendered descriptions of childhood places, of a compassionate teacher, and an absent or harsh mother.
Not at all a bad book as it is, but I do wonder what might have been.
While this is still obviously a draft -- and it is some news that people like Albert Camus produced drafts and did not conjure up their work by magic -- there are the makings here of a psychological novel, and of the intense associations and memories of childhood.
The framing for all this is a man heading to France from Algeria in search of anything about his dead farther. And from there we see lovingly rendered descriptions of childhood places, of a compassionate teacher, and an absent or harsh mother.
Not at all a bad book as it is, but I do wonder what might have been.
April 4, 2017
بچه به خودی خود هیچ نیست، پدر و مادر هستند که او را نشان میدهند. با وجود آنهاست که حد خود را معین میکند، و حدش در نظر مردم معین میشود. به واسطه آنهاست که احساس میکند به راستی دربارهاش قضاوت میشود، آن هم قضاوتی که نمیتوان از آن استیناف خواست، و همین قضاوت مردم بود که ژاک تازه آن را کشف کرد و همراه با آن قضاوت خود او بود دربارهی دلچرکین پرکراهتی که در سینه خودش بود. نمیتوانست بفهمد که وقتی بزرگ می شود، اگر این کراهت را احساس نکرده باشد برتریهای کمتری خواهد داشت. چوم مردم، خوب یا بد، خود آدم را میبیند و قضاوت می کنند و بسیار کم تر از روی خانواده آدم قضاوت می کنند و حتی زمانی می رسد که درباره خانواده هم از روی بچهای که بزرگ شده قضاوت میکنند.
از متن کتاب
از متن کتاب
June 3, 2024
چند ترم پیش باید برای درس اپیستمولوژی دانشگاه یک مقاله مینوشتم با این موضوع که با توجه به فلسفه دکارت توضیح بدیم که اگر یک فرزند انسان رو در یک جزیره دورافتاده بدون هیچ تربیتی رها کنیم، آیا ذات انسانیش صفات انسانیت رو در اون فرد ایجاد میکند یا نه. یادمه با اینکه منابع یکسان بودن ولی اختلاف نظرات زیادی در این مورد وجود داشت. این کتاب تا حد زیادی منو به یاد اون موضوع میانداخت. داستان پسربچهای که به نقل از کامو «در چهل سالگی میفهمد که نیاز به کسی دارد که به او راه نشان بدهد و سرزنش یا ستایشش کند: به پدر. به قدرت معنوی نه زور.» و «شانزده ساله و سپس بیست ساله شد و هیچ کس با او سخنی نگفت. ناگزیر بود دست تنها یاد بگیرد، دست تنها بزرگ شود، با زور، با قدرت، دست تنها اخلاقیات و حقیقت خود را بیابد، تا این که سرانجام به صورت آدم به دنیا آید و سپس با تولدی سخت تر دیگر بار به دنیا آید.» با شنیدن این موضوع شاید این تصور به وجود بیاد که کتاب حاوی شرح وقایع خارق العاده ای از زندگی ژاک، شخصیت اصلی داستان هست. ولی قسمت حیرت انگیز همین جاست که کامو از خلال عادی ترین اتفاقات روزمره که اکثر انسان ها تجربه میکنند، رویارویی اش با زندگی، فقر، ناتوانی، مذهب، جنگ، بلوغ و ... رو توصیف میکنه و ژاک رو از نو متولد میکنه.
این کتاب آخرین اثر کامو هست که درگذشت این مرد بزرگ، اجازه به اتمام رسوندن این کتاب رو نداد. ولی برای من یکی از نکات جذاب این کتاب، یادداشتهایی پیرامون کتاب بود که سیر تفکرات کامو و روشهای متسلسل کردن بخشهای مختلف رو نشون میداد، ولی در عین حال باعث میشد که روند و نظم کتاب بهم بریزه و خسته کننده ش کنه.
این کتاب آخرین اثر کامو هست که درگذشت این مرد بزرگ، اجازه به اتمام رسوندن این کتاب رو نداد. ولی برای من یکی از نکات جذاب این کتاب، یادداشتهایی پیرامون کتاب بود که سیر تفکرات کامو و روشهای متسلسل کردن بخشهای مختلف رو نشون میداد، ولی در عین حال باعث میشد که روند و نظم کتاب بهم بریزه و خسته کننده ش کنه.
January 2, 2025
"The First Man" is a fascinating unfinished novel by Albert Camus that was published after he passed away in 1994, almost 30 years later. Even though it wasn’t completed, it gives us a unique and heartfelt look into the personal life of one of the most influential writers of the 20th century. The book beautifully explores Camus' own childhood, his bonds with family, and his journey to blend his personal experiences with his broader philosophical thoughts. It's a captivating read for anyone interested in understanding the man behind the philosophy!
June 16, 2022
برای من خواندن آدم اول حسی داشت شبیه به آنکه گویی در حال تماشای فیلم Amarcord یا حتا cinema paradiso هستم.
من داشتم با آدم اول خاطرات کامو را از یک صفحه تماشا میکردم. حیف که این شاهکار کامو نصفه و نیمه ماند، اما با اینحال لذتی که از خوندناش بردم دستکمی از یک رمان پایان یافته تمامعیار را نداشت.
من داشتم با آدم اول خاطرات کامو را از یک صفحه تماشا میکردم. حیف که این شاهکار کامو نصفه و نیمه ماند، اما با اینحال لذتی که از خوندناش بردم دستکمی از یک رمان پایان یافته تمامعیار را نداشت.
August 28, 2020
Dedicar tempo a ler um romance inacabado é aceitar uma entrega parcial contra uma dedicação total. Mas é também aceder ao que de outro modo jamais se conheceria: as fases e métodos de criação de um escritor.
Desta aceitação e dedicação recebi um bildungsroman em analepses alargadas, em que as reflexões sobre a pobreza e sua condição num contexto urbano serão o melhor, com passagens sobre a odisseia particular do aluno pobre que graças a uma sorte imensa faz a travessia de auto-descoberta tornada possível através de uma altamente improvável prossecução dos estudos, resultado do talento único de um raro pedagogo «olheiro».
E só isto me bastaria para o contentamento leitor.
Mas há também a descrição contundente das ímpares relações afectivas averbais, de uma humanidade plena e flagrante que Camus tão virtuosamente traça no cru do texto por trabalhar.
Nenhum verdadeiro fã de Camus desprezará o privilégio de aceder a esta vista sobre a forma e método de composição das suas obras.
De Camus já era fã e adensei o meu culto. Do pedagogo guardo a excelsa memória deste romance e ainda melhor impressão pelo documento final, revendo nele as duas pedagogas que me «reconheceram centelha» e me mudaram o rumo, mas que, acima de tudo, me aceitaram e validaram como nunca ninguém fez antes e depois de cada uma delas.
A escola ainda é a grande escada civilizacional (e não apenas social).
Desta aceitação e dedicação recebi um bildungsroman em analepses alargadas, em que as reflexões sobre a pobreza e sua condição num contexto urbano serão o melhor, com passagens sobre a odisseia particular do aluno pobre que graças a uma sorte imensa faz a travessia de auto-descoberta tornada possível através de uma altamente improvável prossecução dos estudos, resultado do talento único de um raro pedagogo «olheiro».
E só isto me bastaria para o contentamento leitor.
Mas há também a descrição contundente das ímpares relações afectivas averbais, de uma humanidade plena e flagrante que Camus tão virtuosamente traça no cru do texto por trabalhar.
Nenhum verdadeiro fã de Camus desprezará o privilégio de aceder a esta vista sobre a forma e método de composição das suas obras.
De Camus já era fã e adensei o meu culto. Do pedagogo guardo a excelsa memória deste romance e ainda melhor impressão pelo documento final, revendo nele as duas pedagogas que me «reconheceram centelha» e me mudaram o rumo, mas que, acima de tudo, me aceitaram e validaram como nunca ninguém fez antes e depois de cada uma delas.
A escola ainda é a grande escada civilizacional (e não apenas social).
December 19, 2016
La mère d'Albert Camus
L'auteur a été fauché par une mort accidentelle avant de pouvoir finir cet ouvrage. Malgré cela, de larges passages sont déjà constitués, et permettent de profiter de ce qui annonçait déjà un grand livre. Il s'agit principalement d'un récit autobiographique, prenant place dans l'Algérie coloniale du début du XXème siècle. Ce récit déborde d'amour; pour ses proches, pour l'instituteur qui l'a pris sous aile et lui a permis de poursuivre ses études; pour ce père qu'il n'a pas connu, fauché par la grande guerre; pour son prochain également, tel cet Arabe qu'il sauve du lynchage suite à un attentat. Loin du manichéisme germanopratin, loin du ressentiment partial et emporté, Albert Camus défend la rigueur intellectuelle et morale. Une lecture magnifique et dont le propos reste toujours vivant.
December 6, 2019
The first man is the story of a miracle; a miracle that starts with a little boy growing in abject poverty in North Africa, between the chores at home and the moments of freedom running through the streets of Algiers with his friends. To make matters worse, this boy never knew his father and his mother is desperately weak and incapable of providing any emotional support to her two sons. His grandma is the real master at home and she is the mighty dictator that the boy has to overcome in order to be allowed to go to high school rather than follow the order to get a petty job and contribute to the family’s meager earnings. What to do then when you have no hope of escape, no prospect other than make enough to survive one more week? The boy would have never had the upper hand in his struggle to get an education had he not been supported by his good school teacher that stopped at nothing to overcome all obstacles in accompanying the boy on the path to enlightenment. Here, the good man tutors him at night, there he lends him some money and over there it is he again cornering grandma in her kitchen and winning the final battle for his dear pupil.
And then what? The boy makes it to high school and grows up to be the perfect clerk in an obscure low ceiling office? No, no, no. That boy turns out to become one of the most iconic writers in post war French literature, the founder of a new philosophical concept and eventual winner of the Nobel Prize. His name: Albert Camus.
This is the last book of Camus, his autobiography that the author of ‘The Stranger” wanted to be his most perfect work, filled with such level of emotion that you could actually feel through the lines the very fabric of his life growing up in Algeria. Unfortunately Camus died before he had a chance to complete the work and the book was only published in 1994, more than 30 years after his death by his daughter. The book is nevertheless a masterpiece for the power of its writing. I actually read it like a fairy tale anchored in reality. Isn’t that what we want in this gloomy century? Yes, we want fairy tales but not the ones with fake castles and princesses that only six year olds can believe; no, we want the real ones that will show us that not everything is predestined, that the winners and losers of the world are not always the usual suspects.
Now, when I write my own books I can say to myself, here you go, do your very best because no matter how low you started, Camus started lower and see where he ended up…
I must also say something about the title: The First Man. It sounds even better in French: Le Premier Homme. Some books smell the masterpiece as soon as you read the title (War and Peace, One day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch, Servitudes et Grandeurs Militaires, The bonfire of Vanities). You can just tell that it will be one of the “ones”. “The First Man” also captures that dose of mystery encapsulated in Camus’s extraordinary destiny; it contains the mystery about his origins, his unknown father and the blank sheet he had to deal with as he grew up. The First Man has only himself to show for on his genealogy tree, a little like the first name at the top of family trees of royals; the tree of the kings and queens of England starts with William the Conqueror. William was a first man too. Well, Camus would start a new tree for himself and HE would be the beacon at the top of it that everyone below would be referring to in future generations. William the conqueror raised an army and forged himself a kingdom. Albert Camus summoned the power of words to his service and created a new philosophical concept in post war thinking: the Absurdism of which the Stranger is the flagship.
Beyond the chronicle of the young boy’s path, the book also struck me by its powerful quotes outlining Camus’s ability to strike at the core with little:
“Here even the unnecessary was shabby, because they never had anything superfluous.”
“A child is nothing by himself; it is his parents who represent him. It is through them that he defines himself, that he is defined in the eyes of the world. He feels it is through them that he is truly judged.”
“All the men born in this country [Algeria] one by one tried to learn to live without roots and without faith and all together today risked permanent anonymity and the loss of the only sacred traces of their passage on this land.”
“The long summer was wearing out for Jacques in gloomy days and in insignificant occupations. This office work was coming from nowhere and led to nothing. Jacques discovered in this office vulgarity and cried for the lost light.”
“Heat, boredom and tiredness revealed his own malediction.”
A must read.
And then what? The boy makes it to high school and grows up to be the perfect clerk in an obscure low ceiling office? No, no, no. That boy turns out to become one of the most iconic writers in post war French literature, the founder of a new philosophical concept and eventual winner of the Nobel Prize. His name: Albert Camus.
This is the last book of Camus, his autobiography that the author of ‘The Stranger” wanted to be his most perfect work, filled with such level of emotion that you could actually feel through the lines the very fabric of his life growing up in Algeria. Unfortunately Camus died before he had a chance to complete the work and the book was only published in 1994, more than 30 years after his death by his daughter. The book is nevertheless a masterpiece for the power of its writing. I actually read it like a fairy tale anchored in reality. Isn’t that what we want in this gloomy century? Yes, we want fairy tales but not the ones with fake castles and princesses that only six year olds can believe; no, we want the real ones that will show us that not everything is predestined, that the winners and losers of the world are not always the usual suspects.
Now, when I write my own books I can say to myself, here you go, do your very best because no matter how low you started, Camus started lower and see where he ended up…
I must also say something about the title: The First Man. It sounds even better in French: Le Premier Homme. Some books smell the masterpiece as soon as you read the title (War and Peace, One day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch, Servitudes et Grandeurs Militaires, The bonfire of Vanities). You can just tell that it will be one of the “ones”. “The First Man” also captures that dose of mystery encapsulated in Camus’s extraordinary destiny; it contains the mystery about his origins, his unknown father and the blank sheet he had to deal with as he grew up. The First Man has only himself to show for on his genealogy tree, a little like the first name at the top of family trees of royals; the tree of the kings and queens of England starts with William the Conqueror. William was a first man too. Well, Camus would start a new tree for himself and HE would be the beacon at the top of it that everyone below would be referring to in future generations. William the conqueror raised an army and forged himself a kingdom. Albert Camus summoned the power of words to his service and created a new philosophical concept in post war thinking: the Absurdism of which the Stranger is the flagship.
Beyond the chronicle of the young boy’s path, the book also struck me by its powerful quotes outlining Camus’s ability to strike at the core with little:
“Here even the unnecessary was shabby, because they never had anything superfluous.”
“A child is nothing by himself; it is his parents who represent him. It is through them that he defines himself, that he is defined in the eyes of the world. He feels it is through them that he is truly judged.”
“All the men born in this country [Algeria] one by one tried to learn to live without roots and without faith and all together today risked permanent anonymity and the loss of the only sacred traces of their passage on this land.”
“The long summer was wearing out for Jacques in gloomy days and in insignificant occupations. This office work was coming from nowhere and led to nothing. Jacques discovered in this office vulgarity and cried for the lost light.”
“Heat, boredom and tiredness revealed his own malediction.”
A must read.
October 29, 2018
Given the number of inaccuracies, author’s footnotes, and the incompleteness of the ending, one has to treat this as an unfinished novel, or a memoir with names fictionalized. Nevertheless, the fact that the manuscript was found in the wrecked vehicle in which Camus perished, and that it was published 35 years after he died, gives it a special place in the Nobel prize-winning author’s canon.
The book covers Camus’ birth in 1913 until his graduation from school at the age of 15 in Algeria. The narrative is told by an older Camus (or Jacques, per his fictitious name) in his forties, who is visiting the former colony from France to discover who his father was, a father who left the family when Camus was a year old and went to fight for France in the First World War, never to return. The bereft family of the mute mother and two sons (Jacques is the younger) go to Algiers to live with the maternal grandmother and uncle. Life at Grandma’s is unhappy, impoverished and devoid of love. Grandma is the boss and beats Jacques for the slightest transgression. She also wants this gifted student to quit his studies and find a job to help keep the family aloft. Thanks to a benevolent teacher, the family is persuaded to delay their material gratification until young Jacques can complete his education for a higher return on their investment.
Two-thirds of the book is the older Jacques’ search for his father, whose family migrated from Alsace to Algeria during the time of the Second Republic in France in 1848. Jacques has difficulty reconciling that his father died at 29 while he is now an older man. In the process, we are treated to his minute recollections of childhood. The complex but mellifluous sentences in this book are its main draw. Camus conjures colonial Algeria in her last days of empire extremely well. The French in Algeria are lost souls, persecuted persecutors, living in a land without forefathers or memory. When Jacques has to fill up a school admission form, he wonders what his nationality is, and settles on “French.” In Algeria, there is a distinction between the French resident and the Arab local, and there is the influence of the Spanish as well who occupy parts of Morocco next door and whose mother country and Balearic Islands sit across the water from Northwest Africa. Grandma is of Spanish heritage.
We get detailed accounts of life with Uncle Ernest, the cooper; après-school antics on the commercial drag, the rue Bab Azoun; the “sugar cane: (aka the strap) administered by the otherwise kindly teacher, M. Bernard; summer employment stints that confirm to Jacques he is not cut out for clerical work; life at the lycee, including duels between students; outings at the beach and games played between children. The eccentricity of poor people of a bygone time makes for curiosity. Jacques’ later proclivity towards sensuousness is caused by his mother’s withdrawn nature and his grandmother’s cruelty. “Poor people’s memory is less nourished than the rich. It has fewer landmarks in space because they seldom leave the place they live in.” People struggling to survive have no time for affection.
This book made me wonder why such detailed recording of history was important to the author, and to all memoirists, for that matter. Life in colonial Algeria appears no different to life in colonial Ceylon where I grew up, a member of the European colonial remnant. We did the same things that Jacques (or Camus) did. But why is it important to record? A freezing of time? Capturing a society that has all but disappeared? A quest for immortality? I’m sure it’s a combination of all these things. For me, reading this book was a validation that being a colonial relic is as hard as it is to be part of a colonized nation, especially when the balance is restored, nationalization takes place, and the tables are turned. The quest for identity and purpose for everyone becomes fierce at these inflection points.
The book covers Camus’ birth in 1913 until his graduation from school at the age of 15 in Algeria. The narrative is told by an older Camus (or Jacques, per his fictitious name) in his forties, who is visiting the former colony from France to discover who his father was, a father who left the family when Camus was a year old and went to fight for France in the First World War, never to return. The bereft family of the mute mother and two sons (Jacques is the younger) go to Algiers to live with the maternal grandmother and uncle. Life at Grandma’s is unhappy, impoverished and devoid of love. Grandma is the boss and beats Jacques for the slightest transgression. She also wants this gifted student to quit his studies and find a job to help keep the family aloft. Thanks to a benevolent teacher, the family is persuaded to delay their material gratification until young Jacques can complete his education for a higher return on their investment.
Two-thirds of the book is the older Jacques’ search for his father, whose family migrated from Alsace to Algeria during the time of the Second Republic in France in 1848. Jacques has difficulty reconciling that his father died at 29 while he is now an older man. In the process, we are treated to his minute recollections of childhood. The complex but mellifluous sentences in this book are its main draw. Camus conjures colonial Algeria in her last days of empire extremely well. The French in Algeria are lost souls, persecuted persecutors, living in a land without forefathers or memory. When Jacques has to fill up a school admission form, he wonders what his nationality is, and settles on “French.” In Algeria, there is a distinction between the French resident and the Arab local, and there is the influence of the Spanish as well who occupy parts of Morocco next door and whose mother country and Balearic Islands sit across the water from Northwest Africa. Grandma is of Spanish heritage.
We get detailed accounts of life with Uncle Ernest, the cooper; après-school antics on the commercial drag, the rue Bab Azoun; the “sugar cane: (aka the strap) administered by the otherwise kindly teacher, M. Bernard; summer employment stints that confirm to Jacques he is not cut out for clerical work; life at the lycee, including duels between students; outings at the beach and games played between children. The eccentricity of poor people of a bygone time makes for curiosity. Jacques’ later proclivity towards sensuousness is caused by his mother’s withdrawn nature and his grandmother’s cruelty. “Poor people’s memory is less nourished than the rich. It has fewer landmarks in space because they seldom leave the place they live in.” People struggling to survive have no time for affection.
This book made me wonder why such detailed recording of history was important to the author, and to all memoirists, for that matter. Life in colonial Algeria appears no different to life in colonial Ceylon where I grew up, a member of the European colonial remnant. We did the same things that Jacques (or Camus) did. But why is it important to record? A freezing of time? Capturing a society that has all but disappeared? A quest for immortality? I’m sure it’s a combination of all these things. For me, reading this book was a validation that being a colonial relic is as hard as it is to be part of a colonized nation, especially when the balance is restored, nationalization takes place, and the tables are turned. The quest for identity and purpose for everyone becomes fierce at these inflection points.
April 23, 2017
Reading this latest "The First Man" (1995) "published thirty-five years after its discovery amid the wreckage of the car accident that killed its author" (back cover) is of course a bit disappointing due to its evidently unfinished story. Moreover, some of its generously-inserted footnotes have not fully clarified, I think, its readers to appreciate more, rather they seem to distract them into vaguely understandable information, for instance:
Three days ago they had finished over the Atlantic, …, had unraveledᵇ on the Moroccan peaks, …
------
b. Solférino. (p. 3)
The horses stopped, and one of them snorted.ª …
------
a. Is it night? (p. 9)
He helped out and came back to the lamp, …, while his mother, …, would seat herself by the window in winter, …, and watch the traffic of trolleys, cars, and passersby as it gradually diminished.ª …
------
a. Lucien – 14 EPS – 16 Insurance. (p. 228)
etc.
Interestingly, reading Camus is exhausting and demanding since he has written flowingly, that is, from his train of thought; therefore, there are innumerable pages without any paragraph as we can see, for example, in pages 193-195. This is a reason why we need focus and attention while reading him or else we might lose our control and cannot help being serenely lulled, hypnotized and sleepy. However, I found reading him productive and entertaining because we can gradually learn from what he has narrated or described as revealed from some interesting extracts that follow depicting “the story of Jacques Cormery, a boy who lived a life much like his own” (back cover):
Moreover, each book had its own smell according to the paper on which it was printed, always delicate and discreet, but so distinct that with his eyes closed J. could have told a book in the Nelson series from one of the contemporary editions Fasquelle was then publishing. And each of these odors, even before he had begun treading, would transport Jacques to another world full of promises already [kept], that was beginning even now to obscure the room where he was, to blot out the neighborhood itself and its noises, the city, and the whole world, … “Jacques, for the third time, set the table.” Finally he would set the table, his expression empty and without color, a bit staring, as if drunk on his reading, and he would return to his book as if he had never put it down. … (pp. 248-249)
… As soon as his class was announced, he stopped fooling around and became serious. At the sound of his name, he rose, his head buzzing. Behind he could barely hear his mother, who had not heard, saying: “Did he say Cormery?”
“Yes,” said the grandmother, her face flushed with excitement. The cement path he walked along, the platform, the official’s vest with his watch chain, … ; then returning accompanied by the music to the two women who were already standing in the aisle, his mother gazing at him with a sort of astonished joy, and he gave her the thick list of awards to keep, his grandmother with a look calling her neighbors to witness – it all happened too fast after the interminable afternoon, and Jacques was in a hurry to go home and look at the books he had been given. (p. 255)
… Actually, Jacques thought he had a lot to do, what with going swimming, the expeditions to Kouba, sports, …, reading illustrated stories, popular novels, …, and the Saint-Étienne company’s inexhaustible catalogue. Not including errands for the household and small tasks imposed on him by his grandmother. But, to her, all that amounted to doing nothing at all, since the child was not bringing home any money nor was he working as he did during the school year, and in her eyes this free ride was as glaring as the fires of hell. The simplest thing to do was to find him a job. (pp. 261-262)
As advised in the Editor’s Note, we should read the letter Camus wrote to his teacher, Louise Germain, in the appendix and we would see how he respected and appreciated his academic and moral support. His letter was dated on 19 November 1957, that is, after he received the Nobel Prize. An extract:
… But when I heard the news, my first thought, after my mother, was of you. Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching, and your example, none of all this would have happened. I don’t make too much of this sort of honor. …, and to assure you that your efforts, your work, and the generous heart you put into it still live in one of your little schoolboys who, despite the years, has never stopped being your grateful pupil. I embrace you with all my heart. … (p. 321)
In essence, Camus was and is one of the great writers in the 20th century and beyond.
Three days ago they had finished over the Atlantic, …, had unraveledᵇ on the Moroccan peaks, …
------
b. Solférino. (p. 3)
The horses stopped, and one of them snorted.ª …
------
a. Is it night? (p. 9)
He helped out and came back to the lamp, …, while his mother, …, would seat herself by the window in winter, …, and watch the traffic of trolleys, cars, and passersby as it gradually diminished.ª …
------
a. Lucien – 14 EPS – 16 Insurance. (p. 228)
etc.
Interestingly, reading Camus is exhausting and demanding since he has written flowingly, that is, from his train of thought; therefore, there are innumerable pages without any paragraph as we can see, for example, in pages 193-195. This is a reason why we need focus and attention while reading him or else we might lose our control and cannot help being serenely lulled, hypnotized and sleepy. However, I found reading him productive and entertaining because we can gradually learn from what he has narrated or described as revealed from some interesting extracts that follow depicting “the story of Jacques Cormery, a boy who lived a life much like his own” (back cover):
Moreover, each book had its own smell according to the paper on which it was printed, always delicate and discreet, but so distinct that with his eyes closed J. could have told a book in the Nelson series from one of the contemporary editions Fasquelle was then publishing. And each of these odors, even before he had begun treading, would transport Jacques to another world full of promises already [kept], that was beginning even now to obscure the room where he was, to blot out the neighborhood itself and its noises, the city, and the whole world, … “Jacques, for the third time, set the table.” Finally he would set the table, his expression empty and without color, a bit staring, as if drunk on his reading, and he would return to his book as if he had never put it down. … (pp. 248-249)
… As soon as his class was announced, he stopped fooling around and became serious. At the sound of his name, he rose, his head buzzing. Behind he could barely hear his mother, who had not heard, saying: “Did he say Cormery?”
“Yes,” said the grandmother, her face flushed with excitement. The cement path he walked along, the platform, the official’s vest with his watch chain, … ; then returning accompanied by the music to the two women who were already standing in the aisle, his mother gazing at him with a sort of astonished joy, and he gave her the thick list of awards to keep, his grandmother with a look calling her neighbors to witness – it all happened too fast after the interminable afternoon, and Jacques was in a hurry to go home and look at the books he had been given. (p. 255)
… Actually, Jacques thought he had a lot to do, what with going swimming, the expeditions to Kouba, sports, …, reading illustrated stories, popular novels, …, and the Saint-Étienne company’s inexhaustible catalogue. Not including errands for the household and small tasks imposed on him by his grandmother. But, to her, all that amounted to doing nothing at all, since the child was not bringing home any money nor was he working as he did during the school year, and in her eyes this free ride was as glaring as the fires of hell. The simplest thing to do was to find him a job. (pp. 261-262)
As advised in the Editor’s Note, we should read the letter Camus wrote to his teacher, Louise Germain, in the appendix and we would see how he respected and appreciated his academic and moral support. His letter was dated on 19 November 1957, that is, after he received the Nobel Prize. An extract:
… But when I heard the news, my first thought, after my mother, was of you. Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching, and your example, none of all this would have happened. I don’t make too much of this sort of honor. …, and to assure you that your efforts, your work, and the generous heart you put into it still live in one of your little schoolboys who, despite the years, has never stopped being your grateful pupil. I embrace you with all my heart. … (p. 321)
In essence, Camus was and is one of the great writers in the 20th century and beyond.
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