But....

My customer review at Amazon says everything else I wanted to say about Camus:


 Quote:
Shabby Philosophical Cant

[One star]

I do not have any special quarrel with Camus' thesis, which is neither very complex nor very controversial. I am going to summarize it in plain English. Doing so, showing that it can be done, will bear out my criticism of Camus' writing.

Man thirsts for a holistic meaning from life that life cannot give him. It is this simple fact that constitutes the absurd, in the face of which Camus asks (with all the subtlety of a battering ram): Shall we all therefore commit suicide? His answer is, in short, no. The act of suicide symbolizes the triumph of both life and death over the individual, cutting the Gordian knot of the absurd without unravelling it. What then is man to do? According to Camus, he must do two things. Firstly, he must remain aware of the fact that life is absurd; that is, he must not be tempted to escape into oblivion. That much is clear. Camus' second imperative is both more obscure and more interesting, but what it amounts to is this: man must try to find a defiant enjoyment in, or in spite of, his absurd existence. If he can do this--if Sisyphus can admit that he is not unhappy, and smirk to himself as he descends for the millionth or billionth time after his ridiculous bolder, that ineradicable smirk is sufficient to undermine the gods that are punishing him and the universe in which that punishment is his fate. This is our only hope of defeating or at least of negotiating the absurd.

The problem with this book is not in the matter but in the mode, for Camus presents this not-particularly-complex thesis in the most obfuscatory philosophical cant that has ever been inflicted on the reading public.

I will focus by way of illustration on a single aspect of his writing style (or lack thereof), though I warn you that it is abundantly bad in almost every aspect.

Camus likes to introduce everyday words and phrases which, as his usage makes clear, are being given idiosyncratic meanings known only to Camus. He does not pause to clarify for the innocent reader what he means. Nor does he pause to substantiate the vaguest of presuppositions he uses these terms to postulate. Instead, he goes on, breathlessly, to combine them in new sentences from which additional, even more idiosyncratic ideas and presuppositions are extrapolated, and in which still more words are introduced from his maddening idiolect--and so on, in a kind of second- and third- and fourth-order multiplication of ambiguities. A single example will suffice (which, by the way, heads up a new section and is in no way foregrounded by his preceding paragraphs):

"Deep feelings always mean more than they are conscious of saying. The regularity of an impulse or a repulsion in a soul is encountered again in habits of doing or thinking, is reproduced in consequences of which the soul itself knows nothing. Great feelings take with them their own universe, splendid or abject. They light up with their passion an exclusive world in which they recognize their climate."

And again, with a question mark in square brackets to indicate where, I believe, Camus sorely owes his readers an explanation:

"Deep feelings [?] always mean [?] more than they are conscious [?] of saying [?]. The regularity of an impulse or a repulsion in a soul [?] is encountered again in habits of doing or thinking, is reproduced in consequences [?] of which the soul [?] itself knows nothing [?]. Great feelings [?] take with them [?] their own universe [?], splendid [?] or abject [?]. They light up [?] with their passion [?] an exclusive [?] world [?] in which they recognize [?] their climate [?!]. ... "

This pointless and pretentious fudging of sentences is done, it must be assumed, in order to make Camus' thesis appear more complex, more esoteric than it really is. The motive for his crime against the word is literary vanity. Or perhaps the game with which Camus finds defiant enjoyment in the absurdity of existence consists of avenging himself on his readers with his atrocious writing. Whatever the answer, the result is shabby, muddy, and bordering on complete gobbledegook. (I have read difficult books of philosophy before, from Baudrillard to Derrida, "in the unoriginal" and doubt very much that the blame can be laid squarely on James Wood, Camus' translator).

To conclude: His thesis, as I say, has some merit. But for that, why not consult Wikipedia. Hell, edit the page yourself. You'd be hard pressed to do a worse job at clarifying Camus than Camus has done in this complete abortion of a text.