C'est au moment du malheur qu'on s'habitue à la vérité, c'est-à-dire au silence.
Albert CamusAprès tout…, reprit le docteur, et il hésita encore, regardant Tarrou avec attention, c’est une chose qu’un homme comme vous peut comprendre, n’est-ce pas, mais puisque l’ordre de monde est réglé par la mort, peut-être vaut-il mieux pour Dieu qu’on ne croie pas en lui et qu’on lutte de toutes ses forces contre la mort, sans lever les yeux vers le ciel où il se tait.
Albert CamusMais quoi! la mort n'est rien pour les hommes comme moi. c'est un événement qui leur donne raison.
Albert CamusMais le narrateur est plutôt tenté de croire qu’en donnant trop d’importance aux belles actions, on rend finalement un hommage indirect et puissant au mal. Car on laisse supposer alors que ces belles actions n’ont tant de prix que parce qu’elles sont rares et que la méchanceté et l’indifférence sont des moteurs bien plus fréquents dans les actions des hommes. C’est là une idée que le narrateur ne partage pas. Le mal qui est dans le monde vient presque toujours de l’ignorance, et la bonne volonté peut faire autant de dégâts que la méchanceté, si elle n’est pas éclairée. Les hommes sont plutôt bons que mauvais, et en vérité ce n’est pas la question. Mais ils ignorent plus ou moins, et c’est ce qu’on appelle vertu ou vice, le vice le plus désespérant étant celui de l’ignorance qui croit tout savoir et qui s'autorise alors a tuer. L'âme du meurtrier est aveugle et il n’y a pas de vraie bonté ni de belle amour sans toute la clairvoyance possible.
Albert CamusMais il vient toujours une heure dans l’histoire où celui qui ose dire que deux et deux font quatre est puni de mort. L’instituteur le sait bien. Et la question n’est pas de savoir quelle est la récompense ou la punition qui attend ce raisonnement. La question est de savoir si deux et deux, oui ou non, font quatre.
Albert CamusNotre amour sans doute était toujours là, mais, simplement, il était inutilisable, lourd à porter, inerte en nous, stérile comme le crime ou la condamnation. Il n'était plus qu'une patience sans avenir et une attente butée.
Albert CamusVe ben, bu gece, yaşamın belirli bir saydamlığı karşısında hiçbir şeyin önemi kalmadığı için kişinin ölmek isteyebilmesini anlıyorum. Bir insan acı çeker, mutsuzluk üstüne mutsuzluğa uğrar. Katlanır bunlara, yazgısını benimser, iyice yerleşir içine. Saygı görür. Sonra, bir akşam, hiç: bir zamanlar çok sevdiği bir dostuna rastlar. Dostu biraz dalgın konuşur onunla. Eve dönünce, adam kendini öldürür. Sonra gizli dertlerden, bilinmeyen acılardan söz edilir. Hayır. İlle de bir neden gerekirse, dostu kendisiyle dalgın konuştuğu için öldürmüştür adam kendini.
Albert CamusThe rest of the story, to Grand's thinking, was very simple. The common lot of married couples. You get married, you go on loving a bit longer, you work. And you work so hard that it makes you forget to love. As the head of the office where Grand was employed hadn't kept his promise, Jeanne, too, had to work outside. At this point a little imagination was needed to grasp what Grand was trying to convey. Owing largely to fatigue, he gradually lost grip of himself, had less and less to say, and failed to keep alive the feeling in his wife that she was loved. An overworked husband, poverty, the gradual loss of hope in a better future, silent evenings at home, what chance had any passion of surviving such conditions? Probably Jeanne had suffered. And yet she'd stayed; of course one may often suffer a long time without knowing it. Thus years went by. Then, one day, she left him. Naturally she hadn't gone alone. "I was very fond of you, but now I'm so tired. I'm not happy to go, but one needn't be happy to make another start." That, more or less, was what she'd said in her letter.
Grand, too, had suffered. And he, too, might, as Rieux pointed out, have made a fresh start. But no, he had lost faith. Only, he couldn't stop thinking about her. What he'd have liked to do was to write her a letter justifying himself. "But it's not easy," he told Rieux. "I've been thinking it over for years. While we loved each other we didn't need words to make ourselves understood. But people don't love forever. A time came when I should have found the words to keep her with me, only I couldn't.
Yes, he liked his face as he saw it there, his mouth quivering around the cigarette between his lips and the apparent ardor of his deep-set eyes. But a man’s beauty represents inner, functional truths: his face shows what he can do. And what is that compared to the magnificent uselessness of a woman’s face? Mersault was aware of this now, delighting in his vanity and smiling at his secret demons.
Albert CamusTags: beauty inner-demons
Peut-être, répondit le docteur, mais vous savez, je me sens plus de solidarité avec les vaincus qu'avec les saints. Je n'ai pas de goût, je crois, pour l'héroïsme et la sainteté. Ce qui m'intéresse, c'est d'être un homme.
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