The Plague

by Albert Camus

There were some fifty pages of manuscript. Glancing through them, Rieux saw that the bulk of the writing consisted of the same sentence written again and again with small variants, simplifications or elaborations. Persistently the month of May, the lady on horseback, the avenues of the Bois recurred, regrouped in different patterns. There were, besides, explanatory notes, some exceedingly long, and lists of alternatives. But at the foot of the last page was written in a studiously clear hand: “My dearest Jeanne, Today is Christmas Day and …” Eight words only. Above it, in copperplate script, was the latest version of the famous phrase. “Read it,” Grand whispered. And Rieux read: “One fine morning in May, a slim young horsewoman might have been seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the avenues of the Bois, among the flowers …”