The Fall

by Albert Camus

Ah, my dear fellow, for anyone who is alone, recognizing neither god nor master, the weight of days is awful. So one must choose a master, God being out of fashion now. Besides, the word no longer has any meaning; it’s not worth the risk of shocking anyone. Why, our moralists, those who are so serious and love their neighbours: when it comes down to it, nothing distinguishes them from being Christian, except that they don’t preach in churches. In your view, what prevents them from converting? Respect, perhaps: the respect of their fellow men, yes, human respect. They don’t want to cause a scandal so they keep their feelings to themselves. One atheist I knew, a novelist, used to pray every evening. It didn’t make any difference: what a hard time he gave God in his books! What a thrashing, as someone whose name I’ve forgotten would say! One militant freethinker to whom I confided this information threw his hands heavenwards – actually, without meaning any harm by it: ‘It’s no news to me,’ this apostle sighed. ‘They’re all like that.’ If we’re to believe him, eighty per cent of our writers, if only they could do so anonymously, would write and hail the name of God. But they sign their names, according to him, because they love themselves, and they hail nothing, because they hate themselves. As they cannot prevent themselves from judging, they make up for it in morality. In short, they get virtuous satanism. Honestly, this is a peculiar age! Can one really be surprised if peop...