He represented in this century, and against History, the present heir of that long line of moralists whose works perhaps constitute what is most original in French letters. His stubborn humanism, narrow and pure, austere and sensual, waged a dubious battle against events of these times. But inversely, through the obstinacy of his refusals, he reaffirmed the existence of moral fact within the heart of our era and against the Machiavellians, against the golden calf of realism.
— Jean Paul Sartre, from his obituary of Albert Camus.
46 years ago today, on January 4, 1960, Albert Camus — veteran of the French Resistance, editor, philosopher, anticolonialist — died at age 46 in a car accident in the small town of Villeblevin. Camus was the author of, among many other notable works, Le Mythe de Sisyphe, in which he offered the notion that acceptance of the futility of life is the only healthy alternative to the suspension of critical thought required to accept a religious point of view.
“I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
Incongruously, I’ve spent much of my life deriving meaning from the fact that Camus died on the day I was born.
Happy birthday!
Happy Birthday, Big Brother! Hope you are having a good one!
Oh, happy Happy — I wish I’d have known! Here’s hoping you, Becky and the menagerie celebrate in the way that makes you the happiest.
Enjoy!
Happy Birthday, indeed…and what Space Kitty said.
I was a teen when Camus died; I’d read “The Stranger,” which I didn’t entirely understand, but which left me deeply troubled, haunted even, and yet wanting to go to Algeria, to be in that place which had such spellbinding presence in the novel. Then I read his great essay on Capital Punishment, and promptly fell in love, so his death affected me the way James Dean’s had others. I say this with a wide smile, thinking of my dashed American teen-ager hopes of going to France and finding a way to meet Camus, and well, who knows what might have happened? In case that makes anyone snicker, go take a look at any photograph of Camus. I felt the same way about the great actor, who also happened to be oddly handsome, Gerard Philipé; two reasons, then, for getting myself to France, but Philipé died unaccountably young, too, quite a bit before I managed my own arrival.
For years, I always lit a candle for “Albert” on this day. I completely lost track this year.
So, thank-you, Chris, for such a lovely reminder. That Satre piece is among the best he ever wrote, each word, perfect.
For anyone who hasn’t read that essay on capital punishment, I urge you to; it is among the greatest examples of a moral imagination at work that we have.
And Chris, as a devoted reader, let me observe that you are a worthy inheritor of Camus’s “stubborn humanism;” the happy results of your incongruous derivation of meaning from this common date you share is everywhere present here, at Creek Running North.
You win, Chris. I share my birthday with Kipling and two of the Monkees.
Don’t forget the Gadsden Purchase, Angus.
Happy Birthday Chris—May you keep writing, sharing, pondering, futilizing, and being. Cheers~
Happy Birthday, Chris! Hope yours was as good as mine; perhaps even better.
I share a birthday with Shaun Cassidy and Avril Lavigne. I don’t think there’s any meaning to be derived from that.
Hope yours was meaningful, or at least happy.
Happy Birthday, Chris. I think we more often ponder those who drew their first breath on the day we did, than those who exhaled their last. Interesting company in which to share the ethers.
Hope you have a celebratory day, and that at least for the day the rocks are lighter.
Nikki, I’m betting yours was more exciting.
Although not the same year, this Wikipedia entry for my birthday merits a necktie adjustment:
Happy Birthday, Chris!
Thanks for the reminder. Odd things,the beginnings and the endings. A bit more on Camus here.
Oh, and happy birthday.
I was born the day of the Roe v. Wade decision. Heh.
Happy birthday, Chris!
Happy Birthday 8-).
It’s astounding to me that some people derive dread from the concept that life is “empty and meaningless”. I delight in the concept that it’s a wide open and empty palette — I can add colours and textures that I love, that somehow matter to me.
I used to suffer from “existential dread”, the misconceived notion that an empty and meaningless life *meant that* (note the inherent paradox!) life was cruel and terrible and I was unloved.
You evidently share your bday with Louis Braille (thanks, Google!). I share my birthday with two life friends: one of whom died of exposure in Boulder CO a dozen years ago, the other who suffered his fourth divorce a couple years back and who has probably figured out that he cannot maintain close relationships. I’m probably making that mean something. 8-)
happy birthday indeed chris. may life continue to be good for you and becky. the kindness and literate erudition of your (other) commenters is testimony to the quality of your heart and your writing. i struggled to understand camus when i was in high school. his work would probably be more accessible to me now. maybe i’ll try.
Oh, Chris. Happy birthday.
I love Camus absurdly, and you, too. Eleven months and you’ll have outlived the bastard.
Life may be futile, but it’s wonderful having company when you’re shoving rocks uphill.
Happy birthday, Chris!
Happy Birthday, First-Born!