Finding Faith, Hope and Charity in The Plague. Atheism, Absurdity, the Almighty and Albert Camus. Surviving MAGA: Creating Trump-Free Zones.

Finding Faith, Hope and Charity in The Plague.

Atheism, Absurdity, the Almighty and Albert Camus.

Surviving MAGA: Creating Trump-Free Zones.

Burton Weltman

“And now abideth faith, hope, charity,

these three, but the greatest of these is charity.”

Saint Paul. 1 Corinthians 13. King James Bible.

The plague of our day is Donald Trump and his MAGA Movement.  What is to be done?

I am writing this essay in late-February, 2025.  We have recently contracted a second bout of a plague called Donald Trump and his MAGA movement.  It is a serious illness.  Those of us who reject the poisonous politics and sickening policies of Trump and his minions need to find ways to combat that plague but also, and I think this is most important, find ways of creating Trump-free zones in our minds, lives and society in order to promote social, political and mental health. I think that Albert Camus’ novel The Plague can offer some support in this regard.[1]    

The Plague is about a fictional epidemic that has struck in the city of Oran in Algeria.  The main point of the book is the way people fight the disease but also struggle to maintain their ways of life.  The point of this essay is to aver that like the characters in Camus’ book, we should focus on ways and means of fighting the noxious infection in our body politic that Trump and his cohorts represent, but also focus on ways and means of creating and celebrating good in the midst of the evil that surrounds us.  Like Camus’ characters, we need to create healthy spaces – through bottom-up efforts – even in the midst of disaster.  It is one of the ways that people in Camus’ book mostly stayed together and survived.  It is important for us today, too. 

What I am suggesting is not new, but just needs to be remembered.  Historically, small-scale cooperative efforts have often been a way in which positive changes in America have developed, sometimes arising in the darkest days.  There were the utopian communities with which much European settlement began.  There were, and still are, artistic and ethnic communities, local reform and charitable societies, knitting groups and book clubs…  Small-scale cooperatives of all sorts have existed from the earliest days of this country and from which bigger things have developed. They were seeds of humane reform that often seemed absurd at the time but that grew into significance.  Often as a means of subduing and supplanting a biological or social plague.

Our present plague is Donald Trump.  There are a host of pejorative adjectives that I could use in describing him and his unfitness to be President.  Many of them were included in the original draft of this essay.  But I removed them, both because they are probably irrelevant and because I do not want to descend to the sort of derogatory tactics that he regularly uses.  Whatever the adjectives, Trump is personally and politically unfit to be President.  And as I am writing this essay, he is busy wrecking the American government and wreaking havoc on the world order. 

In doing all this, Trump is also grabbing everyone’s attention.  He is a tremendous showman for whom grandstanding seems to be a need but is also a strategy.  And this latter point is a key.  As long as everyone’s attention is on Trump, as long as his opponents focus solely on his awful and unlawful acts, people cannot develop positive projects of their own, projects which could counter the havoc he is wreaking and repair damage that he is doing.  It is therefore, I think, important that we oppose Trump but also that we create Trump-Free zones.  Zones of positive and creative thoughts and actions.  Building from the bottom up an alternative to the horror show that Trump and his MAGA mob are trying to foist on us.

Albert Camus’ novel The Plague can help us in thinking about this.  Camus’ absurdist message and the book’s effect on readers is to focus on the positive while fighting the negative.  And despite Camus’ atheism and absurdism, or perhaps because of them, it is in Saint Paul’s exhortation to live with faith, hope and charity that I think we can understand Camus’ message.

A Plague of Plagues Past and Present. 

This is an essay about plagues and how to survive their aftermath reasonably intact.  A plague is defined in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary as “A disastrous evil or affliction.”  Plagues come in many shapes and from many causes.  Bubonic Plagues. Locust Plagues.  Plagues of Pride, Prejudice, Sexism, Racism, Nativism, Crime, Corruption, Cruelty, Greed, Demagoguery, ad almost infinitum.  The world is plagued with hosts of bad things, and bad things in large numbers are often considered plagues. 

Plagues come and go, and interest in them waxes and wanes accordingly.  Interest in plagues has waxed in recent years as a result of the COVID pandemic.  It has also come from Trump’s labeling immigrants as a plague.  A consequence of calling something a plague is that all-out extreme measures are justified to battle the problem.  War against the plague is effectively declared and the heavy armor is brought to bear.  In recent years, cries have gone up from some quarters to eliminate COVID and from others to eliminate immigrants.  Liberals seek to reinforce the health services.  Trump seeks to send troops to the southern border.  Putting one’s money where one’s mouth is.       

Albert Camus was putting his mouth where his misery was when he published his novel The Plague in 1947, which came shortly after the elimination of the Nazi plague in Europe.  The story, about a fictional bubonic plague in the city of Oran, Algeria, illustrates the social, political and moral consequences of facing a disease similar to COVID, and the book has recently become popular for that reason. 

But the story also relates to the plagues of prejudice and demagoguery that Trump and his MAGA followers are spreading amongst us.  And it exemplifies the absurdist philosophy that Camus propounded as a challenge to the moral sensibilities of his time, and that remains as a challenge to our ability to face the plagues of ours.

The Plague: A Descent into Hell/ An Ascent into Absurdity.

The Plague dramatizes the descent of a city and its citizens into what could be called a heart of darkness. There is an outbreak of bubonic plague that seemingly comes out of nowhere and completely overwhelms the city.  The disease spreads rapidly and kills quickly.  It is evil incarnate.  The authorities initially respond with denial and only under considerable duress, bodies begin piling up in the streets, do they take significant action. 

Isolation ensues.  Sick people are quarantined against the rest of the population, and the town is quarantined against the rest of the country.  People who were just visiting the town are stuck there.  People who were visiting elsewhere are forbidden to return.  People are falling sick in the streets and sometimes dying within hours.  It is a seemingly hopeless situation. But not quite.

Camus wrote most of The Plague during World War II and finished it shortly thereafter.  It bears the imprint of his life in occupied France during the war.  As the plague spreads, the city in his book begins to resemble a Nazi-occupied territory.  Quarantines are established and public activities are limited and controlled.  Then, as the disease spreads further, deaths multiply exponentially.  Sick people are carted off to so-called health centers to die, and the town begins to seem more like a Nazi deathcamp.  But with an important caveat.     

Nazi deathcamps were designed to degrade and demoralize people before they were killed.  Despondency and despair among the inmates were deliberately cultivated.  The goal was to turn people into lifeless zombies so they would passively stumble off to execution.  Inmates were also encouraged to turn on each other.  The goal was to destroy the prisoners’ morale, induce them to give up their morality, and pit them against each other.  As socially and psychologically isolated individuals, they would give up hope, be unable to act together, and be more easily managed. 

The Nazi concentration and death camps were highly successful operations.  They were models of efficiency in their methods of dehumanizing and destroying inmates.  In the aftermath of World War II, the Nazis were widely credited with having demonstrated that people could be turned into zombies.  It was a lesson that reverberated throughout postwar Western society.  The dehumanization of people into masses of robot-like inmates of concentration camp-like societies became a main theme of mid-twentieth century academic literature and as well as fiction.  A host of studies and stories described ways in which this could occur. 

The psychiatrist Bruno Bettelheim, for example, himself a concentration camp survivor, reported that the Nazis had succeeded in reducing most inmates to a state of passivity and obedience.  The historian Stanley Elkins claimed that American slavery was essentially similar to a concentration camp and that slaves were reduced to an automaton-like state.  Sociologists David Reisman, Nathan Glazer and Reuel Denny claimed that modern society isolated people into a lonely crowd of automatons. 

Senator Barry Goldwater claimed that people in the Communist Soviet Union were living in a giant concentration camp and being brainwashed into zombies. The philosopher Herbert Marcuse claimed that capitalist society was essentially similar to a concentration camp and reduced people to one dimensionality.  The novelist George Orwell described a world in a permanent state of war that reduced people to a concentration camp mentality.  These are just a few examples of the thinking at that time.  The dangers of mass psychology and zombification were warned about everywhere.  The zombie theme even permeated popular culture and zombie movies were very popular.

Camus’ The Plague is an antidote to this mass psychology hysteria.  The plague-ridden city he describes in his book shares many of the characteristics of a concentration camp.  But, and this is the key, the citizens do not on the whole develop the concentration camp mentality that most people in the mid-twentieth century would have expected to result from such a situation.  Camus presents, instead, a plausible picture of how a society can be hit with a plague without losing its soul.

In Camus’ story, most people keep their cool, and do so in the most trying circumstances.  Normality is encouraged by the town officials and leading citizens, and is largely maintained.  Most people keep up with their regular employments and enjoyments as best they can.  “Every day, around eleven,” the narrator reports, “there’s a parade of young men and women down the principal arteries, where you can see the passion for life that grows in the heart of great suffering.”  Coming out on the other side of grief, people keep up the faith that things can and will go on. 

And for the most part, they do not become completely antisocial.  People come together in public spaces.  They gather together in restaurants and dance halls, and keep communal connections and community activities alive.  “At noon,” the narrator reports, “the restaurants fill in the blink of an eye” and people stand in lines to wait for a table.[2] 

It is not smooth sailing. People alternate short periods of ecstatic activity with longer periods of deepest depression.  But through it all, most people carry on with their work as usual and their lives as best they can, keeping up the hope that things will return to normalcy someday.  Most telling, there are seemingly no suicides, suicide being something you would expect if people feel hopeless. 

Instead of becoming completely self-absorbed, many people volunteer for a public service corps that helps the sick and others in need, even at great risk to themselves.  “Scourges are actually a communal thing,” the narrator says.  You can’t just focus on saving yourself.  You have to see yourself as part of larger community and act as such.[3]

And, significantly, their public spirit is not seen by their fellow citizens or treated as heroism.  It is just people helping out, being good neighbors.  Charity as a way of life.  Some people who are initially reluctant to help do so anyway on the grounds that they cannot not live with themselves otherwise.  Their social selves predominate over their selfish selves. 

Nor is this public spirit a function of any specific philosophy or religion.  At the beginning of the plague, the leading Catholic prelate in town preaches a sermon in which he claims the plague is God’s punishment for the people’s wickedness.  People are getting what they deserve.  But by the end of the book, the priest is volunteering to help sick people and promoting measures to end the plague.  One after another, characters who are highlighted in the book, but who are just ordinary people, come around to helping others and volunteering in their spare time to support the authorities.

The first character to be concerned about the plague, and the main character in the book, is Dr. Rieux.  He is one of the first to recognize the disease as a plague and to call for remedial actions.  He then persists through the whole plague year in trying to help the sick and find a cure or preventive vaccine for the disease.  The story is told from his point of view, ostensibly based on notes that he and a comrade took contemporaneously during the plague.  At the end of the book, it is revealed that Dr. Rieux is the narrator. 

The doctor tells a grim tale. This is understandable given his experience of being helpless as day after day and month after month all of his patients dies until eventually a vaccine is developed.  He tells with great pain how after a few months of the disease, people stop welcoming him as a healer into their houses and, instead, begin shunning him as a herald of death because a visit from him means that the plague has come to their homes, and that death for some and maybe all of the inhabitants is nigh. 

But Rieux persists in his calling, with faith for the day, hope for the morrow, and care for his fellow citizens.  He says of himself that he is “a man with a fondness for his fellow humans, weary of the world he is living in, and determined, for his part, to refuse injustice and concessions,” no matter the outcome.[4]

Although he never catches the disease, Rieux suffers from absence of his wife who has been visiting elsewhere and cannot return because of the plague.  At the end of the book, Rieux was told, and he tells us, that his wife had just died of something other than the plague.  It is absurd and ironic that he comes into contact with this highly infectious disease all day every day and survives.  His wife misses the plague, but still dies.

Rieux’ main sidekick in the book is Jean Tarou.  Tarou is in Oran on vacation and gets trapped by the plague.  He speaks most clearly as an apostle of absurdity who believes that life is a losing battle against death and suffering, but one that must, nonetheless, be waged cooperatively with others.  Never give up is his credo.  And he helps Rieux with anti-plague efforts.  Ironically, Tarou dies of the plague at the end of the book just as a vaccine has been developed and the plague is over.  It is absurd and tragic that he works with the diseased for many months without getting sick, but then gets sick and dies just when a preventive vaccine is finally available.

Another main character, Rambert, is a Parisian journalist who is trapped in Oran by the plague. He tries over and over again to escape from the city, but one after another his plans for escape fall apart or fail.  In the interim between efforts to escape, he volunteers with Rieux and Tarou in helping with plague victims.  Finally, toward the end of the book, when he can safely be smuggled out of the city, Rambert decides to stay and help with the anti-plague efforts.  He cannot live with himself if he escapes the disease but leaves his friends in a lurch.

Faith, hope and charity permeate Camus’ characterizations of Rieux, Tarou, Rambert and other citizens in The Plague.  It is ironic that sentiments of Saint Paul would predominate in a work of the atheist Camus, but not surprising.  Camus was what we might call a lapsed Catholic or what he himself called “an independent Catholic.”  Given his background and moral commitments, it makes sense that the moral of his story is a secular version of Saint Paul’s mantra.  Camus saw in people a life-affirming commitment that runs counter to the hopeless feeling promoted by the dismal facts of life.  It is a persistence of faith, hope and charity that is absurd but essential to our humanity.

Defining Absurdity?  An Absurdity?

Camus was a proselytizer of absurdity.  Life is absurd, he proclaimed, and it is the better part of wisdom to recognize that fact and work with it.  It is a proposition that Camus illustrated in all of his works, especially including The Plague.  Absurdity is, however, a slippery concept, more easily illustrated than explained and not always easily understood.  For one thing, one has to distinguish between absurdity in common colloquial parlance from absurdity as a philosophical concept.  Camus uses both meanings. 

Absurdity in the colloquial sense is defined in the Merrium-Webster Dictionary as “ridiculously unreasonable, unsound or incongruous.”  This definition essentially encompasses the failure of things to turn out the way we think they should.  If something has worked every time for many times and now doesn’t work, we think it is absurdly unreasonable or incongruous.  Absurdity in the philosophical sense is defined by Wikipedia as a “theory that the universe is irrational and meaningless” and that “trying to find meaning leads people into conflict with a seemingly meaningless world.”  The definitions relate to each other but also conflict.     

Looking at the colloquial definition of absurdity from the perspective of the philosophical definition, the colloquial definition could itself be considered absurd.  For something to be unreasonable in the colloquial definition, there must first be some idea of reasonable.  That, however, is just what the philosophical idea of absurdity denies.  There is no such thing as reasonable, so there can’t be any such thing as unreasonable.  Similarly, for something to be unsound or incongruous, there must be some generally accepted ideas of soundness and congruity, which the philosophical idea of absurdity denies.  So, what can we say about absurdity?  We can at least say we know it when we see it.  Donald Trump as President of the United States is an example of the colloquial definition of absurdity.

Absurdity in the colloquial sense is not necessarily fatal or forever.  Things that are absurd in the colloquial sense can generally be fixed so that they cease to be unreasonable and incongruous.  Trump, for example, could be impeached from office.  Most commentators think, however, that there isn’t any fix for philosophical absurdity.  There is no way, they say, to overcome the meaninglessness of things, and people just have to face up to that fact.  They even claim that it is a sign of maturity to be willing to accept absurdity as a condition of the universe and meaninglessness as a fact of life. 

Camus is often cited as a proponent of this dark definition of absurdity.  And in some of his bleaker statements, Camus sounds as though he is promoting this sort of fatalistic and nihilistic meaning of absurdity.  But he isn’t.  Camus is both darker and lighter in his ideas.  On the one hand, he contends you cannot say that the universe is meaningless because you don’t have the right to speak of either a universe or of meaning.   This is a definition that borders on nihilism. 

On the other hand, however, Camus propounds a lighter idea of absurdity as something that is inevitable – everything ultimately is meaningless – but is not acceptable.  It is one thing to acknowledge meaninglessness but another to accept it.  He acknowledges it, but still rejects it.  He insists on looking for meaning even as the knows it is not to be found.  It is a position that seems consistent with a reading of Saint Paul’s exhortation to faith. hope and charity.

An Atheistic God.  A Hopeless Hope.  A Careful Love. 

So, how does a self-styled atheist whose gospel is hopelessness and meaninglessness become an apostle of faith, hope and charity?  The answer, I think, lies in the difference between ideas and feelings.  Camus rejects the ideas of faith, hope and charity, especially as they are conventionally defined, but his novels reflect a sentiment of faith, hope and charity.  A belief is an idea.  To Camus, a belief in God was the death of the intellect.  Likewise, the idea of hope, meaning in traditional Christian terms a belief in an afterlife, was a debilitating opiate of the people.  And the conventional idea of charity, defined as giving things to those who have too little, was an insincere effort by those who have too much to assuage their bad consciences.

But faith, hope and charity can flourish with secular meanings.  Faith can be described as a response to the question of why the universe holds together and doesn’t disappear in the next moment.  Logically, there is no reason why it shouldn’t.  Just because the universe has been around for some five billion years is no logical reason to believe it should continue that way.  Such a belief is an example of the empirical fallacy in logic.  Religious believers avoid the empirical fallacy by assigning the task of holding the universe together to God.  For atheists like Camus, however, God won’t do.  

Leaving aside the improbability of God, for Camus the pain and suffering that exist in the universe render the idea of God obscene.  Dr. Rieux in The Plague is an avowed atheist.  He says that if he believed in God, he would just give up trying to do good because he would have to conclude with the Catholic priest that the plague is from God.  And if the plague is from God, then to hell with Him.  But since Dr. Rieux doesn’t believe in God, “he believed he was on the true path, fighting against creation, such as it was.”  He concludes ironically that “perhaps it’s better for God if we don’t believe in him and if we fight against death with all our might, without raising our eyes to the heavens where he keeps silent.”[5]   

But while a belief in God may be unacceptable, it is still hard not to feel that there is something or Something that holds things together, that makes disparate things into a universe and keeps it from falling apart or disappearing in the next moment.  The confidence which we all have – at least those of us who are relatively sane – that things will persist and won’t break up into pieces or disappear at any given moment is a form of faith.  It is an absurd faith.  But one which we can see in the main characters in The Plague.  You can call it God if you want, or Dog or Super Glue or Mustard, or whatever…

If people cannot live without faith in the universe, neither can they live without hope.  Not necessarily the religious hope of life eternal or a belief in an afterlife.  That is an idea of hope that we don’t see in The Plague.  Hope among the book’s characters is defined by the feeling that they will live for the next moment.  Anticipating the next moment is something that people do instinctively, feeling immortal even while recognizing their own mortality.  It is not logical to feel that one will be alive in the next moment, or the next, or the next, ad infinitum.  But it’s almost impossible not to feel that way.  It’s an absurd hope.  It was the hope of people in The Plague as they acknowledged death but refused to accept it either for themselves or for others.

Charity permeates The Plague as Camus’ characters try to save their fellow citizens.  Not charity in the conventional sense of looking down on your social inferiors and giving them some alms.  Nor is it sympathy for others, feeling bad for them.  Rather, it is empathy, sharing their troubles and feeling bad with them.  As we see it in The Plague, charity is sharing among equals.

It is a sharing that derives from the credo “I think, therefore we are,” which is the obverse of Descartes’ famous credo “I think, therefore I am.”  Descartes’ formula is, in fact, nonsense.  There can be no “I” without first there being “you.”  We only know ourselves through contact with others.  I can have no sense of myself without my first having a sense of others with whom I can compare myself and get a sense of “I.”   It is my relationship with others that defines me.

We see ourselves as mirror images of what we see of ourselves in the gaze of others.  Charity, then, is a way of defining myself favorably in your eyes so that I can, in turn, see myself favorably.  Charity is caring for others as yourself.  Not merely as though they are you but as though they are, in fact, a part of you.  Not feeling their pain but inhabiting their pain.  Not loving your neighbor as if your neighbor were yourself but as your neighbor is yourself.  Charity is a commitment to caring and a feeling of solidarity.

Making Meaning Out of Meaninglessness.  Making Trump-Free Zones Out of Absurdity.

Camus is an apostle of absurdity and the meaninglessness of the universe.  But for Camus, absurdity is not a dead end of meaninglessness.  Absurdity is a two-sided dialectic.  On the one hand, it is meaningless to claim that everything is meaningless because that would make that statement meaningless as well, and it would involve you in an infinite regress of meaningless statements about meaninglessness.  That doesn’t stop Camus from proclaiming that all is meaningless, but it leads him into an ironic antithesis. 

According to Camus, we cannot live without meaning, even if that meaning evaporates under closer scrutiny.  There is also no meaninglessness without first there being meaning.  You can’t have less meaning – meaning less -unless you first had more meaning.  And there is no meaninglessness without a renewed search for more meaning.  Absurdity starts with a stab at meaning and a sliver of hope which are then dashed against the reality of meaninglessness and hopelessness.  But then the cycle starts up again with another stab at meaning and sliver of hope.

Nihilists, who reject any search for meaning, confound acknowledging something with accepting it.  It is one thing to acknowledge meaninglessness, which is a key to absurdity, and another to accept meaninglessness, which is the opposite of absurdity.  The absurd person acknowledges absurdity but fights against it and never accepts it.

As The Plague came to an end, Dr. Rieux and his comrades were relieved and rejoiced.  They were also resigned to the likelihood that the plague could return.  The doctor warned his comrades not to become complacent.  “The plague bacillus never dies or disappears” and it can return at any time.  In Camus’ absurd universe, nothing is ever for certain and nothing is ever forever.  Which is no reason not to keep fighting, to rejoice at victories, and to hope that lasting progress has been made.[6]

But looking back on the plague year, the doctor is gratified at the public spirit most people had shown.  At what is in effect the faith, hope and charity of the populace.  He concludes that even “in the middle of scourges, there is more to admire in humanity than there is to scorn.”  During the plague, people came out of their shells and came to realize that “There were no longer any individual destinies, only a collective story of the plague and the feelings everyone shared.”  There were no great heroes, the doctor explains, “such as those you can find in the old tales.”  Just ordinary people doing what they saw as their duty.   And it is astonishing, the doctor says, that they never ran out of people willing to deal with the sick and the dead, that there were so many people who would risk getting the plague in order to do the public good.[7]

Rieux is also gratified and grateful that even in the midst of the plague, people did not completely give up their lives to the plague.  While fighting the disease, they continued to do the sorts of things that make life good.  Eat, drink and party.  Play music, dance and sing.  Whatever made them happy.  They “undertook to recapture their happiness and to deprive the plague of that part of themselves they would defend to the last.”  Developing what can be called Plague-Free Zones in themselves, among themselves, and in their city.[8]

And that is the moral of this essay.  That in the midst of the current plague of Trump and MAGA we should not let him deprive us of that part of ourselves that we would defend to the last.  That we don’t get so caught up in the negative of responding politically but also, most importantly, emotionally to Trump, that we are unable to act positively in our own lives.

Trump’s strategy is to throw out a constant stream of provocations with the aim of absorbing all of his opponents’ time and energy in responding to them.  His goal is to get his opponents so wrapped up in responding to him that we cannot promote our own programs and policies and, just as important, cannot demonstrate in our own lives what we value the most.  If we do that, if we focus all are attention on him, he wins. 

So, my proposition is that even as we work in opposition to the evils that Trump and his MAGA mates would inflict on us, we all of us try also to set up Trump-Free Zones in ourselves, among ourselves, and in our society.  To do like the populace in The Plague and live out our faith, hope and charity in the face of the plague around us.  To do whatever positive and creative things we can.  And, as Jesse Jackson has been wont to say: “Keep hope alive!”

                                                                                                                        BW  2/25


[1] Albert Camus.  The Plague.  Alfred A. Knopf.  New York: 2021.

[2] P. 82.

[3] P. 30.

[4] P. 14.

[5] Pp. 86-87.

[6] P. 207.

[7] P. 111.

[8] P. 94.

Albert Camus’ “The Fall.” Getting on and off a Guilt-Trip: Morality in an Amoral Universe.

 Albert Camus’ The Fall.

Getting on and off a Guilt-Trip:

Morality in an Amoral Universe.

 

Burton Weltman

“It is in the thick of calamity that one gets hardened to the truth

 – in other words, to silence”

Albert Camus.

Precis: Making a Longish Story Short.

Albert Camus’ novel The Fall is a book about guilt, shame, responsibility, and whether it is possible to live a moral life in what is arguably an amoral universe.  First published in 1956, the book focuses on one of the most difficult of moral problems: The harm that we unintentionally do to others, either out of indifference or in the name of helping them.  Not viciousness but callousness.  Not maliciousness but self-righteousness.  And despite our best intentions, selfishness and self-interest are at the root of most evil.  The book contains a message about the dangers of nihilism and authoritarianism, the importance of distinguishing guilt and responsibility, and the virtues of empathy, solidarity and responsibility, that is very relevant to our times.

The Fall dramatizes some of the moral consequences of Camus’ philosophy of the absurd that he articulated in philosophical treatises The Myth of Sisyphus (1942) and The Rebel (1951). The absurd,” Camus explained “is born of the confrontation between the human need [for reason and meaning] and the unreasonable silence of the world.”[1]  It is absurd, he claimed, to look for meaning in the universe but that doesn’t stop us from trying.  We can’t help it.  We are made that way.  Humans are reasoning beings who cannot help but try to find meaning in the universe.  But that does not mean that meaning is really there to be found.  In this context, Camus contends that traditional moral philosophies which vainly try to find eternal moral truths through reasoning are exercises in absurdity.  So, what is a person to do?

Enmeshed in absurdity, Camus proposes that human life is valuable to the extent that we continually rebel against both meaninglessness and meaning, and is moral to the extent that we act in solidarity with each other.  The honest person, what Camus calls the “absurd man,” sees through the meanings he finds and rejects them one by one as meaningless, even as he finds more.  It is a Sisyphean enterprise.

Meaning and meaninglessness, solidarity and self-centeredness, are in constant contradiction in ourselves and in our world, and we must live with this tension if we don’t want to fall into a fatalistic nihilism – all is selfishness and anything goes –  that could descend into an oppressive totalitarianism – all must do what they are told in the name of law and order.  Nihilism and totalitarianism are the extremes that Camus rejects in favor of a moral practice based on empathy, responsibility, solidarity, and a militantly modest and moderate permanent rebellion.[2]

There are two characters in The Fall, a main character who goes by the name of Jean Baptist Clamence and who does all the talking, and a second unnamed character (hereafter the Listener) who is totally silent and just listens to Clamence.  In a prolonged diatribe, Clamence insists that we live in a fallen universe embedded with evil, and that humans are fallen and inherently immoral beings.  He is a self-styled prophet of universal guilt – that is, that we are all of us guilty all of the time.  Moral codes, he claims, are a sham and when people claim to follow a moral code, they are invariably hypocritical.

Clamence contends that self-interest and selfishness prevail everywhere, and harm is inevitably done to others out of inattention, inaction and indifference even when it is not done intentionally.  He makes no difference between intentional harm and unintentional harm.  They are both evil.  And given the interconnectedness of everyone and everything, Clamence insists, it is impossible to live without harming others and so, he contends, we are all of us inveterate evil-doers whether we intend it or not.  Nihilism, Clamence concludes, is the logical illogic of reality.  In a meaningless universe, anything goes, and usually goes wrong.

Most interpreters claim that Clamence is speaking for Camus.  They contend that he represents Camus’ absurdist philosophy as it is articulated in The Myth of Sisyphus.  That book deals for the most part with the effect of absurdity on the individual person, and whether there is any reason to live.  The book opens with the famous line “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”[3]  Camus essentially resolves that problem by concluding that if there is no reason to live, there is also no reason to die, so we might as well live on.  That is essentially Clamence’s view but he also adds to it that life is one long guilt trip, and that we are and should feel guilty all of the time, a view that most interpreters of The Fall attribute to Camus.  I don’t agree.

Most interpreters of The Fall also claim that Clamence is the central character in the book since he does all the talking.  And most of them also imply that even though there is a second, albeit silent, character in the story, Clamence is somehow speaking directly to us, the readers.  We are supposedly his audience.  Again, I don’t agree.

I think that The Fall is better seen as a dramatization of some of the main themes in The Rebel.  Suicide is the central problem in The Myth of Sisyphus.  Murder is the central problem in The Rebel.  In a meaningless universe, how can we live together and how can we combat evil without murdering each other?  Empathy, solidarity, and responsibility are essentially Camus’ answer.

Contrary to Clamence, Camus sees the universe as amoral and not immoralHe contends that while in the absence of an authoritative God everything is permitted, that doesn’t mean nothing is prohibited and that there is no morality.  Morality is what we humans make of it, with an emphasis on “we” as the starting point.  Whereas Clamence is an individualist and is obsessed with his own private vendetta against humanity and the universe, Camus’ emphasis is socialistic.  “I rebel therefore we exist,” he insists.  Human solidarity is the source of value in life and a way to overcome self-centered selfishness.  Given Clamence’s professed nihilism, rather than speaking for Camus, I think that Clamence is an example of the extremism that Camus rejects.

Clamence is on a guilt trip that he wants everyone to join. It is the sort of thing that Camus repeatedly rejected.  Camus promoted the idea of universal responsibility, which means that we are all responsible all of the time, individually and jointly, but not guilty.  Camus repeatedly insisted that “There may be responsible persons, but there are no guilty ones.”  Guilt is remorse over a past act that is over and done with and about which nothing can be done except feel bad.  Responsibility is an ongoing process that extends action from the past into the present and projects itself into the future.  If what we have done has been wrong, we must try to fix it.  We must do what we can whenever we can, but not feel guilty if we can’t do everything.[4]

I agree with the reviewer who described The Fall as follows: “the thesis of this philosophical novel in one sentence: We are all responsible for everything.”  I disagree, however, with that reviewer’s claim that Clamence represents this thesis in what he says and says he has done.[5]  I contend that it is the behavior of the Listener, who sympathetically listens to Clamence’s diatribe – his litany of harms that he has unintentionally done to others for the most part out of indifference – that represents Camus’ idea of responsibility.

The Listener accepts responsibility for Clamence’s anguish with a sympathetic silence, demonstrating to Clamence a form of clemency, even though he does not express agreement with Clamence’s nihilism.  For these reasons, I contend that while Clemence is the main character in the book, the Listener is the central character around whom everything revolves and who speaks for Camus in his silence.

In sum, I think that Camus’ answer to Clamence’s challenge as to how one can be moral in an amoral or even immoral world is empathy.  The Listener personifies empathy, an empathy that comes from the recognition that we are all responsible for everything and that genuine confession is a matter of assuming responsibility and not guilt.

Prologue: A Moral Morass.

The title of The Fall (La Chute in French) is a multiple-entendre, referring, among other things, to Satan’s fall from heaven, Adam’s fall from the Garden of Eden, and the fall of Clamence from a position of high repute and professional success to a life of shame and dissolution.  It also refers to a woman falling from a bridge into the Seine River, which event seemingly precipitated a moral crisis in Clamence and led to his own descent.  The French word “chute” means fall but also downfall.  Falling and downfalling are central metaphors in the book.   

The Fall is an intriguing book and, for a philosophical novel, a page-turner. The book tells the story of a retired lawyer who calls himself Jean-Baptist Clamence.  Clamence is a self-described fallen man who has seemingly done something so bad that it has ruined his life.  The book consists of Clamence’s recounting of his life story with a host of philosophical implications.    The Fall is a highly regarded book in the canon of Camus’ works.  It has been heralded as “Camus’ chef d’oeuvre” and described by Jean-Paul Sartre as Camus’ “most beautiful” book.  But it is also, according to Sartre, “the least understood” of Camus’ works.[6]

The Fall is a sparse book.  It has only two characters and no action.  It is all talking and Clamence does all the talking.  The other character, an unnamed man whom Clamence meets by chance in a bar, and whom I call the Listener, does virtually nothing.  Over the course some one hundred fifty pages, Clamence holds forth in a monologue to the Listener who utters not one word.  A difficulty of The Fall arises, I think, in large part from its unusual format – a monologue overheard by the reader in which one character, Clamence, speaks to another character, the Listener, who never speaks at all.  Many readers misinterpret the monologue as being addressed to the readers, instead of to the Listener.  Another difficulty of the book is the complex moral questions it poses.  These are, at the same time, its most interesting features.

Clamence tells a highly emotional story, and in telling it and pleading with the Listener for understanding, he professes a negativistic philosophy of life and nihilistic view of morality.  His negativism is based on his contention that we are all of us guilty of immorality all of the time.  Citing his own life as an example, Clamence insists that philosophies and pretenses of morality are merely covers for immorality, and that the idea of a moral life is a contradiction in terms.

Clamence’s diatribe is complicated and convoluted.  Cutting through his overwrought rhetoric, I think that at least two key moral questions arise out of Clamence’s narrative.  The first is whether and how one can live a moral life in a universe full of evil.  We live in a world in which evil doers routinely inflict unmerited suffering and death on people.  As Clamence poses the problem, if we want to live moral lives, we must do all we can to eliminate evil.  Morality requires zero tolerance for the suffering of others.  We must not only not profit from others’ suffering, we must not tolerate it.  We must not live at ease while others are suffering and dying.

In this context, Clamence contends, inaction is itself evil.  We are effectively accomplices in any evil that occurs anywhere and anytime if we have not given our all toward eliminating it.  And giving your all means dying for the cause.  Dying for the cause is the only moral act.  If we are alive and well, we are, in effect, guilty of at least tolerating the suffering and death of others.  We are also almost certainly contributing to evil in the world because of the interrelatedness of all things.  Only by dying can we demonstrate our moral commitment to eliminating evil and, thereby, also eliminate the evil we inevitably inflict on others just by living.  Living, in Clamence’s telling, is inherently immoral, and a moral life is seemingly impossible.

The second question is whether and how one can live a moral life when self-interest seems to permeate everything we do.  Clamence claims that everything we choose to do is a function of self-interest.  If we chose to do a thing, that thing is, by definition, something in which we are interested, which is why we choosing it.  Selfishness and self-interest underlie even the most seemingly selfless acts if we have chosen to do those acts, because then we are only doing what we ourselves want to do.  Slavery, Clamence contends, which means doing only what others make you do, is the only way to avoid selfishness.  In Clamence’s telling, selflessness is a contradiction in terms, selfishness pervades everything, and a moral life is seemingly impossible.

These are tough questions and the format of The Fall adds to the difficulty of fathoming them. The format may itself also be a source of misunderstanding to readers.  In this book, unlike in most monologues, the speaker is talking to someone else in the story and not directly to us, the readers.  This makes the book different than Camus’ earlier novel The Stranger (1942), which is a sustained monologue in which the speaker addresses the reader.

In The Stranger, the main character, Merseault, is talking directly to us, the readers.  In The Fall, the main character, Clamence, is talking to a second person, the unnamed and unheard Listener.  We readers are overhearing their conversation.  In most interpretations of the book, Clamence is seen as the central character and a spokesperson for Camus’ existentialist and absurdist philosophy.  I disagree.  And I think this conventional interpretation is a misreading that is in part based on a misunderstanding of the book’s format.

Most interpretations of The Fall ignore or dismiss the role of the Listener and assume that Clamence is effectively talking to us, the readers.[7]  But Clamence is not talking to us and it makes a difference.  Camus knew how to write a monologue addressed to the reader.  He did it in The Stranger.  So, he must have had something in mind by inserting into The Fall a second person with whom the main character is talking and pleading.

I suggest that what Camus had in mind was that the Listener is the central character in the book and that his silence suggests a nuanced answer to the moral questions posed by the book, an answer very different than the extreme negativism promoted by Clamence.  In short, the Listener does not fall for the nihilistic arguments of Clamence and his empathetic silence, unlike the silent indifference of the universe, is telling.

Camus and Silence: Ivan Karamazov and the Grand Inquisitor.

Silence plays a big part in many of Camus’ works.  Camus’ father died during World War I when Camus was just a child and his mother was deaf.  As a result, Camus lived most of his youth surrounded by the sounds of silence.  There are many different kinds of silence.  There is the silence of ignorance.  The silence of indifference.  Silence as assent.  Silence as dissent.  Scornful silence.  Supercilious silence.  And, silence of support.  Camus used all of these in his writings.  The silence of the Listener in The Fall parallels the silence of Jesus in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov.  It is a book that Camus repeatedly returned to in his writings, particularly to both the character Ivan Karamazov, whom Camus considered a pioneer of absurdist philosophy, and a chapter in the book called the “Grand Inquisitor.”

In the chapter on the “Grand Inquisitor,” Ivan Karamazov recounts to his younger brother Alyosha a parable about Jesus returning to earth in the midst of the medieval Spanish Inquisition.  Ivan is an atheistic intellectual who is looking for rhyme and reason in the universe, but finding only meaningless brutality.  Alyosha is a novice and naïve monk.  In Ivan’s story, Jesus wanders about preaching His message of salvation through faith and love, and performing a few miracles.  Jesus is duly arrested for disturbing the peace and taken to be interrogated by the Grand Inquisitor.  The chapter consists of a long monologue on the part of the Inquisitor, during which Jesus says nothing despite being asked to respond and encouraged to admit His failings.  Jesus’ failing, according to the Grand Inquisitor, is his inveterate humility.

The Inquisitor chastises Jesus for rejecting the three temptations to earthly power that he had been offered by Satan in the desert.  If He had accepted them, He could have become the dictator of the world, which is what the Catholic Church had been attempting to do ever since.  Alluding to the original sin of Adam, The Inquisitor complains that “Man was made a rebel; but can rebels be happy?”  The answer, he insists, is “No” and, therefore, people must be enslaved, while thinking that they are free, in order to relieve them of the responsibility for making moral choices.  Responsibility is a burden.  Freedom from responsibility will make people happy.

The Inquisitor explains that enslaving people and relieving them of moral choices is what the Church has been attempting to do in Jesus’ name since His death, even though Jesus preached and practiced just the opposite.  And that is why the Inquisitor wants Jesus to leave and never come back again.  When the Inquisitor finishes, Jesus continues his silence, but then kisses the Inquisitor and leaves.  And, Ivan concludes, He hasn’t been heard from since.[8]  Ivan’s response to the silence of Jesus is scornful, but I think one can also see His silence as empathetic and understanding of the Inquisitor, even if He disagrees with him.  It is the same, I think, with the Listener in The Fall.

The theories and practices of the Inquisitor represented for Camus the epitome of that which he opposed.  Camus inveighed against “would be Caesars” who espoused a “despairing nihilism” and took advantage of people’s weaknesses to control them.  Referring to Dostoevsky’s novel, Camus complained that “These are the Grand Inquisitor who imprisons Christ and tells Him that His method [of love] is not correct, that universal happiness cannot be achieved by the freedom of choosing between good and evil, but by the domination and unification of the world.”[9]

In The Fall, Clamence represents the nihilism and will-to-power over others that Camus abhors.  At the same time, Camus portrays in the story an empathetic Listener whose silence compares with that of Jesus in Dostoevsky’s chapter on the Grand Inquisitor.  Just as in The Fall, Dostoevsky raises questions in his novel about whether and how one can be moral in a world steeped in evil.  Dostoevsky was a devout Christian and apparently found answers to these questions in God.  Camus was a non-believer who found solace in human solidarity.

The Plot(s): Circles Within Circles.

There is virtually no action in The Fall.  The story takes place over five days during which the characters meet in a bar in the red-light district of Amsterdam and elsewhere in and around the city.  In the course of the book, Clamence regales the Listener with tales of his fall from grace to damnation.  The “action” consists of Clamence talking, telling what he claims is his life story, with the Listener seemingly making an occasional gesture, and possibly uttering an occasional word that is not recorded in the book, to which Clamence reacts in the course of his monologue.  That’s the plot of Camus’s story.

The plot of Clamence’s story is in the form of a confession of all the immoral things he has done and of which he is supposedly ashamed.  They are not intentional harms that he has inflicted on others but unintentional byproducts of acting selfishly.  His story is a sustained guilt trip of selfishness.  The plot or plan which underlies Clamence’s story consists of his effort to get the Listener to join him on his guilt trip.  It is important to distinguish between Clamence’s life story, which he strategically reveals in bits and pieces over the course of the five days, and Clamence’s plot, which is to seduce the silent Listener into admitting his own guilt.  Clamence’s goal is for the Listener to come to see himself as an evil person, be ashamed of himself, and admit it.  That way, Clamence later admits, Clamence can feel superior to the Listener and less ashamed of himself.  He wants most of all to avoid being judged, and so he wants to be able to judge others instead.  That’s his plan.

Clamence’s life story is strategically told to induce the Listener to admit to a guilty conscience.  The story proceeds in stages, some of which are not consistent with each other except in their intent to sway the Listener. Clamence says that he is a lawyer and that seems evident in his adopting a shifty defense lawyer’s tactic of saying whatever might be convincing at any point in time even if it is inconsistent with what he has said before.  Many interpreters of the book take what Clamence says at face value as what actually occurred in his life.[10]  But his repeated admission that he is an unreliable narrator prevent both the Listener and we readers from knowing whether anything Clamence says happened actually did happen.

Clamence admits that “It’s very hard to disentangle the true from the false in what I am saying.”  But it doesn’t matter, he claims, because “Lies eventually lead to the truth…So what does it matter whether they are true or false?”[11]  That’s Clamence’s plot: to say whatever he must in order to get at what he thinks is the truth of the Listener’s sins, and get the Listener to admit it.  Everything Clamence says is centered around persuading the Listener, who is thereby the central character in the book.  But Clamence’s plot fails.  The Listener patiently listens for five days, seemingly sympathetic and even empathetic with Clamence’s anguish, but he leaves unpersuaded, undaunted and unbowed.  And that’s why I think he is the hero of the book.

Clamence’s Story: What a Tangled Web. 

As Clamence tells it, his life story is of a seemingly virtuous and successful man who does a very bad thing which leads to his downfall.  For the first half of the book, Clamence hedges around what this bad thing is, but then, exactly half-way through the book, he describes the event.  He says that he was walking one evening across a bridge over the Seine River in Paris.  “On the bridge I passed behind a figure leaning over the railing and seeming to stare at the river.”  When he had walked on for another fifty yards, he heard the loud splash of a body hitting the water and then “a cry repeated several times.”  He thought “Too late, too far” and went on home, informing no one and avoiding the newspapers for several days thereafter.[12]

Clamence’s failure to act, even though it is not clear that he could have done anything to save the woman or even that the woman actually drowned, is the turning point in his life, leading him to question and disparage everything he has done or thought before.  It is seemingly not so much what he could have done as what he felt at the time that most bothers him.  He was apparently feeling tired and didn’t want to be bothered, let alone take some risk in trying to get the woman out of the river.  Callous and cowardly seems to be his judgment of himself.  He says that he has never stopped feeling shame for apparently letting that woman drown when he might possibly have saved her.  And it is seemingly on the basis of this event that he eventually comes to the conclusion that all and everyone is evil in the world, whatever the pretenses.

Clamence’s name is symbolically ironic.  He says that it is Jean-Baptist Clamence, though he admits at one point in his story that he has gone by other names as well.[13]  Clamence is one letter off from “clemence,” which is the French word for clemency.  Jean-Baptist is French for John the Baptist, the Biblical saint who dispensed clemency through the cleansing process of baptism.  Clamence is not dispensing clemency.  To the contrary, he is engaged in trying to convince the Listener and probably many similar listeners before him of their guilt and shame.

At the end of the book, Clamence describes his strategy: “I accuse myself up and down…I adapt my words to my listener and lead him to go me one better.”[14] Clamence seems to be like the Ancient Mariner who is compulsively compelled to repeat his tale of woe, albeit instead of carrying a dead albatross on his shoulders, Clamence carries a dead woman in his conscience.   He says that getting others to admit their sins makes him feel better about his own.

In his fulmination against himself and humanity, Clamence effectively makes a mockery of the three main traditions of Western moral philosophy – deontology, virtue ethics, and utilitarianism.  His arguments and examples undermine their underpinnings.  Deontology is a rule-based moral tradition.  It insists that people follow a set of moral rules such as the Old Testament’s Ten Commandments, the New Testament’s command to give your wealth to the poor, or Kant’s Categorical Imperative to do only what you would have everyone do.

Virtue ethics is a character-based moral doctrine.  It promotes the cultivation of moral character traits such as truthfulness, selflessness, sincerity, and generosity, and is associated with Aristotle.  Utilitarianism is a result-based moral precept.  It contends that one should do that which will result in the greatest good for the greatest number of people.  Jeremy Bentham was a leading utilitarian.  Implicit in Clamence’s narrative is a rejection of each of these moral traditions.  Implicit in the Listener’s silence is, I believe, sympathy with Clamence’s rejection of traditional moral philosophy, which reflects Camus’ views, but not an acceptance of Clamence’s nihilism.

The Stages of Clamence’s Descent and Lament.

Clamence’s attempted seduction of the Listener proceeds in what can be seen as six stages over the five days of the story, with each stage more vehement and pathetic than the last.  His diatribe constitutes a series of guilt-trips, ego-trips, power-trips, shaming, and shamming in an ultimately fruitless effort to get the Listener to spill his own guts and open up his own bag of sins.

In the first stage, shortly after they have met, Clamence tries a simple shaming technique on the Listener by asking him whether the Listener has given up all his possessions to the poor, claiming that he has done so himself.  The implication is that a good man would follow Jesus’ command to sacrifice oneself for others.  “I possess nothing,” Clamence proclaims.[15]  This is a lie, as we later find out that Clamence has a nice home and lots of nice things.  But it is an example of the mind games that Clamence intends to play on the Listener, and a lie that Clamence would contend is in pursuit of the truth and is, therefore, acceptable.  In any case, the Listener apparently shakes his head “No,” meaning that he hasn’t given his all to the poor, but he does not rise to the bait of either condemning or defending himself.

This leads to the second stage of Clamence’s attempted seduction on the same day.  In this stage, he portrays himself as someone who has inconspicuously practiced every virtue.  As a lawyer, “I never charged the poor a fee and never boasted of it,” he claims.  “I loved to help blind people cross streets,” he says, because they could not see who was helping them so that he was an anonymous do-gooder.[16]

But then Clamence turns the argument against himself, claiming that his virtuous behavior was really an ego-trip.  “I needed to feel above” everyone else, and doing anonymous acts of supposed virtue gave him this feeling of superiority.  Everyone looked up to him and “I looked upon myself as something of a superman.”[17]  He concludes this argument with the contention that you “can’t love without self-love,” that selflessness is really selfishness.  Having tainted virtue with vice, he seemingly hopes to provoke a response and a mea culpa from the Listener, but none comes.[18]

So, the next day, Clamence launches a tirade against virtue as a power-trip, seemingly trying to get the Listener to admit to his own lust for power.  Clamence claims that “one can’t get along without domineering or being served.  Every man needs slaves as he needs fresh air.”[19]  Love is domination, he insists, and virtue a means of control.  “When I was concerned with others, I was so out of pure condescension,” he confesses.[20]  “Power,” he declaims, “settles everything,”[21]  He seems to hope that this will provoke a response from the Listener.  It doesn’t and, frustrated with what he calls the Listener’s “polite silence,” Clamence pleads with him “But just think of your life, mon cher compatriot.”  To no avail. The Listener says nothing, but he returns the next day.

Shifting tactics somewhat the next day, Clamence tries to induce the Listener into admitting that everyone who pretends to virtue is a hypocrite  We are all in the business of judging others, he claims, and “People hasten to judge in order not to be judged themselves.”[22]  With respect to their own misdeeds, people want to believe that they were the result of “unfortunate circumstances” and not their own character flaws or selfish choices.[23]

In his own case, Clamence claims, “modesty helped me to shame, humility to conquer, and virtue to oppress.”  He practiced hypocrisy as a way of life and “brought out the fundamental duplicity of the human being” in others [24]  A false and fallen angel himself, he was only doing what everyone does.  In the end, Clamence concludes, “I have no more friends: I have nothing but accomplices” in the business of hypocrisy.  “And,” he taunts the Listener, “you first of all.”[25]  But the Listener does not take the bait.  He admits nothing, but again comes back the next day.

The following day, Clamence pulls out what he seems to think is his best argument.  This should be the clincher that the Listener cannot ignore.  He insists that it is impossible to live a moral life by living as you would have others live because living is itself an immoral act.  Living in the face of others’ deaths is inherently immoral and in living, we are effectively guilty of murder.  We are, in addition, guilty not only of our own crimes in living but also the crimes of others.  “Every man testifies to the crimes of all the others,” Clamence declares, and “we can state with certainty the guilt of all.”[26]  The Listener takes this in and seemingly does not disagree, but neither does he agree or denounce himself.  And he returns for one more day.

On the last day, Clamence resorts to his most pathetic argument, a warped form of utilitarianism.  He describes his experience in a German POW camp during World War II, having been captured while trying to flee France to safety abroad.  A self-confessed coward, he describes how he became the informal head of a group of prisoners, the “Pope of the prison camp,” and was given the power to dole out supplies.  He admits that he gave himself a larger share of the supplies and even drank the water of a dying man.  His rationale for this behavior was that he was needed by the other prisoners and so his first duty was to save himself.[27]

But then Clamence reverses course again, denounces this explanation as a rationalization of his selfishness, and makes his final plea to the Listener.  He explains to the Listener how he has been trying to seduce him into confessing his own sins.  It’s a method he has apparently used on many others.  Describing the method, Clamence says that he starts by “saying ‘I was the lowest of the low.’ Then imperceptibly I pass from the ‘I’ to the ‘we,” and then “I provoke you into judging yourself.”[28]  He corrals his listeners into identifying with him and then when he denounces himself, he gets them to denounce themselves.  But it hasn’t worked with the Listener.

Clamence closes his monologue with a plaintive plea to the Listener to confess.  The Listener remains silent.  So, Clamence pleads that the Listener should at least “Admit, however, that you feel less pleased with yourself than you felt five days ago.”  The Listener still says nothing.  Clamence concludes with a pathetic challenge.  “Now I shall wait for you to write me or come back.  For you will come back, I am sure.”[29]  Still no response.  Piteously, Clamence can’t let go.  “Say now that you are going to talk to me about yourself,” he whines.  No response.

In his final words, Clamence wishes that he could go back to that fateful evening and have once again the choice to try to save the woman.  But he no sooner wishes for that opportunity for redemption than he cynically dismisses it.  “Brr…!,” he complains as he imagines the scene, “The water’s so cold! But let’s not worry!  It’s too late now.  It will always be too late.  Fortunately!”[30]  There is no redemption and Clamence is grateful for that because undergoing redemption would be so hard.  He would rather be damned, or so he says.

Confession without Contrition: Universal Guilt v. Universal Responsibility.

Camus was raised as a Catholic and although he left the Church, he operated intellectually to a large extent within a Catholic framework.  His interest in confession, which is the form of both The Stranger and The Fall, is an example.  However, although Clamence’s monologue is in the form of a confession – he characterizes it as such – it is actually nothing of the sort.  He even confides at one point that the “authors of confessions write especially to avoid confessing,” and that seems to go for him too.[31]

For Catholics, confession is the prelude to penance and restitution, and to reconciliation with oneself and the world.  Clamence specifically rejects this process.  His goal is to admit to anything and everything bad that he can think of in order to put himself out of reach of any penance and reconciliation, and in order to induce others to admit to their guilty actions.

Clamence is mired in what Jean-Paul Sartre would call “bad faith.” He doesn’t want forgiveness from others or from himself because that would leave him in the position of having to make new moral choices.  He wants to plead guilty continuously so that he won’t have to face up to those choices and take responsibility for them.  In the course of his rantings, Clamence admits to ever more heinous thoughts and actions, amassing an ever-increasing debt of guilt.  This leaves an impression with the reader that he may be making most or even all of it up as a means of trying to manipulate the Listener, and Clamence even admits that he is making up at least some of it.[32]

So, it could be that Clamence’s so-called confession is all a lie, but if it is, it is a lie based on an undeniable underlying truth that there is evil in the world, and that most of us ignore most of it most of the time.  In proclaiming himself guilty for ostensibly having let a young woman die without trying to help her, Clamence may be just inventing what he conceives of as an extreme example of evil so as to highlight the general problem.  But whether he is lying or not, we are still left with the problem of evil in the world, and whether and how we can live moral lives in a world full of evil.

Clamence thinks we can’t.  He believes in what could be called “universal guilt,” which is that we are all guilty all of the time.  Given our chronic guilt, we must, in turn, live with perpetually guilty consciences and continuous judgments of guilt from others and from ourselves.  In this view, the human condition is a piteous situation.  Most reviewers seem to take Clamence’s lament at face value as expressing Camus’ views.[33]  I disagree.

Camus holds to what could be called “universal responsibility,” which means that we are responsible for everything, which means that we cannot sit around wallowing in guilt like Clamence does when we fail and fall.  We must pick ourselves up and get on with the next thing, which is what Dr. Rieux, the hero of Camus’ novel The Plague, does.  Faced with an impossible situation, an unstoppable and untreatable plague that is decimating the population, he continues to do what he can to help people.  But what comparable does the Listener do in The Fall?

I think the Listener does two important things.  First, he comes back every day for five days to hear Clamence out until Clamence is finished.  Second, he thereafter leaves and apparently gets on with his life.  Whereas Clamence is guilty of “bad faith,” I think the Listener should be credited with good faith as an empathetic listener to Clamence’s tale of woe, and as someone who is then literally ready to get up and get on with things.  That he is silent throughout is not an abdication of responsibility.  Having encountered Clamence in a bar, the Listener accepts responsibility for emotionally supporting Clamence even if he disagrees with Clamence’s conclusions.  The Listener’s actions are an example of the human solidarity that Camus promotes.

The moral and morale support which I think Camus ascribes to the Listener in The Fall is a key to Camus’ moral philosophy.  As Camus explains in his treatises The Myth of Sisyphus and The Rebel, and portrays in his novels The Stranger, The Plague, and, I contend, in The Fall, Camus believes that the indifference of the universe and the hostility of others can be overcome through acts of solidarity with others and a commitment to living with them in what could be called a caring community.

Camus’ Theory of Rebellion and Solidarity: All or Nothing v. All for One and One for All.

Camus’ The Rebel is an exploration of extremism and an exhortation to rebellion as an alternative to nihilism and totalitarianism, and human solidarity as an alternative to the reasonings of moral philosophy.  Rebellion is the legitimate response to meaninglessness in the universe, and solidarity is the answer to the question of how to try to be moral in an amoral universe.  The Listener in The Fall represents this answer.

Humans are inherently rebellious, Camus claims, and rebellion is “the first piece of evidence” that we exist.  Babies cry rebellion against their discomfort, and someone responds.  Babies know from then on that they exist.  In rebellion, individuals realize they have selves and are separate from other beings.  But, at the same time, they find through rebellion that they are not isolated beings.  One cannot rebel alone but only in connection with others.  If there is no response, there is no rebellion and no self-awareness. “I rebel – therefore we exist.”[34]  Selfhood starts with recognition of others and acceptance of them as comrades and equals   Rebellion starts with solidarity with others.  “Man’s solidarity is founded upon rebellion, and rebellion, in turn, can only find its justification in this solidarity.” [35]  In turn, solidarity starts with empathy.

Empathy is the root of rebellion but the antithesis of revolution.  Revolution is an all-or-nothing gambit.  Camus rejects revolution because it inevitably leads to murder and to the rationalization of murder as necessary for the cause.  Revolution also almost inevitably leads to oppressive and authoritarian regimes.  The Grand Inquisitor was the leader of such a regime.  Revolutions are organized around a theory of “us” versus “them,” and “them” deserve to be repressed.  Rebellion, to the contrary, is an incremental approach to social justice that emphasizes people’s commonalities, not their differences, that we are all in this together and that I can accept your disagreement as long as you can accept mine.  Rebellion must be militant but modest.

Camus’ answers to the questions posed by Clamence’s diatribe, as to how can one be moral in the midst of evil and how can one overcome selfishness, are empathy and solidarity.  Empathy – I feel your pain and your joy – enables you to identify with others and, thereby, define yourself.  It is the foundation of morality.  Solidarity – we are all in this together, and it’s one for all and all for one – subsumes self-interest and sublimates selfishness.  It is the means of reconciling the conflict between the One and the Many.  Empathy and solidarity are the antidotes to Clamence’s cynicism and nihilism.

The silence of the Listener is sympathetic and even empathetic.  He is seemingly not shocked or dismayed by what Clamence tells him, and he keeps coming back for more until Clamence is finished with his tale and his plea.  The Listener seemingly does not judge Clemence.  Based on Clamence’s reactions, the Listener seems to feel that “But for the grace of God, there go I,” which is a feeling that Clamence is aiming at.  But the Listener does not go from empathy to identity, as Clamence had hoped, and does not condemn himself.  Implicit in the Listener’s comradely support of Clamence is the possibility that Clamence will see in the Listener a model for how to get out of the vale of despair in which Clamence is mired.  It is not likely.  But in any case, the Listener is a model for us, the readers, as to how we might deal with nihilism and negativism in others.

The Listener politely and patiently listens to the whole of Clamence’s diatribe and then seemingly bids him farewell and leaves.  That, I contend, is for Camus a way of living morally in an amoral world.  It isn’t the only way but it is a legitimate response to the anguish of others.  It is the Listener’s empathy with Clamence that is his cardinal virtue, and is one of the cardinal virtues that Camus preached in all of his works.  Empathy is the best response to absurdity, and silence can be a legitimate form of empathy.  Although we can and should avoid deliberately harming others, we cannot always avoid doing so unintentionally.  It’s absurd but true.

We live in a time of guilt-tripping on all sides.  On the political right, anti-abortionists try to guilt-trip women who want to terminate their pregnancies by labelling them as baby-killers.  On the political left, human rights advocates try to guilt-trip anyone who ever committed any act that could be construed as racist or sexist, no matter if it was unintentional or how long ago.  These are only examples of what seems to a plague of ill-will in our society today.  Empathy for the difficult positions and different conditions in which people lived in the past and live in the present is scarce.  In the midst of the diatribes, denunciations, guilt-tripping and hypocritical rationalizing that engulf us in our world today, the example of the Listener in The Fall can perhaps be a lesson for us.

[1] Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. P.28. 

[2] Albert Camus.  The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956.P.302.

[3] Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus.  New York: Vintage Books, 1955. P.3.

[4] Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. P.50.  Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. P.301.  

[5] “Camus: The Fall.” The Philosophy.com

[6] Jacqueline Wallace. “What Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall’ Has to Say About Modern Society.” The Artifice. 3/23/2014.

[7] For example, “The Fall by Albert Camus.”  Shmoop. The Teaching Encyclopedia.  Jacqueline Wallace. “What Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall’ Has to Say About Modern Society.” The Artifice. 3/23/14.  “Camus: The Fall.” The Philosophy.com

[8] Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Brothers Karamazov. New York: Farrrar, Straus and Giroux,2011. eBook Edition, P.295.

[9] Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. P.60.

[10] Scott Horton. “Camus – The Fall.”  Harpers Magazine. 8/8/2009.

[11] Albert Camus. The Fall. New York: Vintage Books, 1991. P.119

[12] The Fall.  Pp.68-71

[13] The Fall.  P.125.

[14] The Fall.  P.139.

[15] The Fall.  Pp.9-10.

[16] The Fall.  P.20

[17] The Fall.  27-28.

[18] The Fall.  34.

[19] The Fall.  44.

[20] The Fall.  48.

[21] The Fall.  45.

[22] The Fall.  80.

[23] The Fall.  81.

[24] The Fall.  84.

[25] The Fall.  73.

[26] The Fall.  108, 110, 112.

[27] The Fall.  122-123, 126-127.

[28] The Fall.  140.

[29] The Fall.  140.

[30] The Fall.  147.

[31] The Fall.  P.120.

[32]  The Fall. P.119.

[33] See for example: Patrick Kennedy. “Study Guide for Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall.’” Thoughtco. 5/25/2019.

Jacqueline Wallace. “What Albert Camus’ ‘The Fall’ has to say about Modern Society.” The Artifice. 1/23/2014.

Daniel Just. “From Guilt to Shame: Albert Camus and Literature’s Ethical Response to Politics.” Project Muse. 4/21/2011.

[34] Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. P.22.

[35] Albert Camus. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956.P.22.

Hope for humanity in Stoppard’s “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.” Just how dead are they? A fateful misstep need not be a fatal mistake.

Hope for humanity in Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.

Just how dead are they?  A fateful misstep need not be a fatal mistake.

 Burton Weltman

 “We cannot choose our circumstances,

but we can always choose how we respond to them.”

Epictetus.

 

1.Prologue: Existentialist Nightmares.

“We are our choices.”   Jean Paul Sartre.

We have all had this nightmare.  You are trapped in a scary place that you can’t get out of, or you are being chased by someone or something that you can’t get away from.  You almost get free, but then not.  You are baffled and can’t figure out what to do.  But, just before you are done in by whatever is threatening you, you wake up, shaking, but free of the danger.

That is essentially the experience of two minor characters from Hamlet as they are portrayed in Tom Stoppard’s comic play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.  Caught in what appears to them, and to us in the audience, as a nightmare, they stumble about, futilely trying to figure out what is going on, and how to get out of whatever it is.  The dreamlike quality of their existence is exemplified by their frequent inability to remember things, including the events of their own lives before they were caught up in Hamlet’s story.  They also repeatedly find themselves in scenes of Hamlet and not remembering how they got there.  It is like a nightmare.  Only they don’t wake up.  And they are done in at the end.[1]

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is a play set inside another play, Hamlet, and it runs in tandem with the other play.  Whatever happens in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is bounded and limited by what happened in Hamlet.  That is, nothing can occur in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that would conflict with or contradict the script of Hamlet.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern must work out their own fates within the confines of Hamlet’s tragedy.

Stoppard is generally considered to be an existentialist playwright.  Existentialism is generally considered to be a philosophy of choices.  In Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Stoppard has created a situation of severely constricted choices.  He has, thereby, pushed the existential situation to its extremes.  Since Hamlet ends with an announcement of the deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, we the audience watch the humorous antics of the two bumbling characters in Stoppard’s play with muted horror because we already know the ending of Hamlet.  But we still hope against hope that they will wake up to their situation and escape what seems to be their fatal fate.  They don’t wake up from their nightmare and they don’t escape, but could they have?  I think this is the crucial question of the play.

Were there options that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern could have taken within the confines of Hamlet that would have allowed them to survive, despite the announcement of their deaths at the end of that play?  Were there choices that Stoppard could have had them make that would have enabled them to survive, despite being constrained by the terms of Hamlet.  I say “Yes,” there were.  They could have survived, and that is the main point of Stoppard’s play.

2.The Plot: Such as it is.

“Man is conditioned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.”  Jean Paul Sartre.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are two young Danes, apparently Prince Hamlet’s childhood friends and classmates at Wittenberg University in Germany.  They have been summoned by the newly installed Danish King Claudius to the King’s castle to spy on Hamlet.  Hamlet has recently returned from Germany to attend the funeral of his father, the late King Hamlet.  Prince Hamlet is behaving in suspicious ways, which is of concern to the new King since he had secretly murdered Hamlet’s father in order to gain the throne, and he would not want the Prince digging up the dirt on him.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, seeming to have no real option but to obey the command of their King, agree to watch Hamlet and report on him.

The two characters spend the rest of their own play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, wandering around inside Hamlet’s play.  They show up at key dramatic moments of Hamlet, openly appearing in the action of Hamlet where they have been written into the script of that play, secretly behind the scenes of Hamlet where they are not in the Hamlet script.  They observe the action in Hamlet, but play no active role in the course of either Hamlet or Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  They are passive actors in both plays.  But, although Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were by the terms of their play unable to alter the course of Hamlet’s play, that does not mean they were without options and choices.

3. A story inside a story: An existentialist dilemma.

“I rebel; therefore, I exist.” The Myth of Sisyphus Albert Camus.

Every story, whether factual or fictional, begins with some sort of “Once upon a time” scenario.  “Once upon a time” creates the existential situation within which the characters in the story will make their way.  It provides the background and the setup of the story, that is, the status quo from which the story proceeds.  The story’s plotline will then disrupt the status quo – that is the gist of the story – and the story will generally end with some new ordering of things.

The opening is critically important to a story because the opening usually portends the story’s ending.  The setup of a story generally indicates who and what is important, and inclines events in a certain direction.  The options allowed to the characters, and the existential choices they can make, are defined and constrained by the opening setup.  It is like setting up a debate.  Whoever gets to set the terms of the debate is most likely to win, and if you join the debate on someone else’s terms, you are most likely to lose.

It is often the case in a fictional story that if you are not there at the beginning, you are likely to meet a bad end.  That is one of the problems facing Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in their play.  They are there at the beginning of their own play, but they are almost an afterthought in Hamlet’s story and, as such, they were expendable to Hamlet.  But that does not mean they weren’t important to themselves, or that they were expendable to the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Tom Stoppard did something quite unusual in this play, for which there isn’t even a name.  He told a story about two minor characters in Hamlet, and did so within the confines of that play.  It is a story inside a story, which is different than a play within a play, such as the one Shakespeare included in Hamlet.  The play within Hamlet was part of the plot.  It was a device used by young Hamlet to further his goal of unmasking Claudius as a murderer.  But Stoppard’s play is not part of the plot of Hamlet.  It occurs in, but is not of, Hamlet.  

It is not uncommon for an author to piggyback his work onto an existing popular story, either a story by another author or by him/herself.  This can be done in a variety of ways.  There are prequels that tell the backstory of the original work; interquels that fill in happenings taking place between events in the original story; sidequels that tell of things taking place at the same time as the original story; and sequels that tell of what happened after the end of the story.

In the case of Hamlet, a prequel might have described young Hamlet’s childhood. An interquel might have described what Laertes did while he was away from Denmark during the middle of the play.  A sidequel might have described what Fortinbras was doing before he appeared at the end of the playAnd a sequel might have described what happened in Denmark after all the main characters in the play were dead and Fortinbras had taken over.  In composing each of these types of “quels,” an author must be consistent with the original story, but he/she is essentially operating outside of that story and has a good deal of latitude in composing his/her own plot.

But Stoppard did something else.  He placed his story directly inside the story of Hamlet and, thereby, narrowly limited the scope of his invention and his characters’ options.  His two main characters must repeatedly come up to the mark of their roles in Hamlet.  Whatever they do or wherever they go, they must be back to make their scheduled appearances in Hamlet, and nothing they do can conflict with their roles in that play.

But that does not mean that Stoppard had no latitude within which to play, or that his characters could not act on their own behalf in their own play.  There was wiggle room in Hamlet within which he could create and they could react.  So, how could Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have escaped their seemingly fated deaths, and why didn’t they?

4. Free Will, Determinism, and Compatibilism: Finding Existential Wiggle Room.

“Freedom is what we do with what has been done to us.”   Jean Paul Sartre.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is a philosophic play that raises many questions, including questions about whether people are capable of willing freely what they choose, or are bound by deterministic chains of cause and effect.  Most critics claim that the play is intended to illustrate the randomness of the universe as it appears to us and the determinism of the universe as it is in reality.  The play, they say, emphasizes the contradiction between the way in which we experience the world as freedom and the way in which the world really is.

Stoppard, these critics argue, portrays Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as “moving towards an inescapable fate,” despite what they experience as “the randomness of life.”  The two characters are chronically befuddled, and have no real options or choices.[2]  The play shows people “at the mercy of external forces,” and “unable to make any significant choices.”[3]  It is “a play about the tricks of fate” which render Rosencrantz and Guildenstern “incapable of helping themselves,” and make them symbols of  a helpless and hopeless humanity.[4]  In this view, Stoppard portrays the world as “absurd” and “uncertain,” and the “hapless” Rosencrantz and Guildenstern exemplify humanity’s inability to make significant choices and take meaningful action.[5]  In sum, the moral of the story is the futility of free will and the fatality of determinism.

In support of this reading, critics point to views in the play expressed by the Player and seconded by Guildenstern.  Stoppard identifies the Player as the chief of the actors hired by Hamlet to enact the play within his play.  These actors play a small role in Hamlet but a big role in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  Much of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern consists of discussions between Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and the Player about life and living.  Consistent with his vocation as an actor, the Player holds that all of life is scripted for us, and that our role in life is to follow the script.  “We have no control,” he declaims. “Wheels have been set in motion,” and “Events must play themselves out,” he insists.[6]

The Player’s is essentially a deterministic view of life.  It is a view, however, that relegates most of us to playing subordinate roles in scripts written by and for others, putting ourselves in the service of others, and without any say-so.  The actors in the Player’s troupe are, in fact, willing to perform any script and any action for anyone.  They don’t even need to be paid money.  They merely need an audience.  Significantly, they apparently moonlight as male prostitutes.  Guildenstern buys into the Player’s rationale, and it is on this basis he and Rosencrantz act.

Many critics claim that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern represent anti-existentialist characters because they repeatedly refuse to choose, and just meander along within Hamlet’s play.  The play, in this view, is a refutation of existentialism.  But that is not accurate.  Existentialism claims that we cannot refuse to choose.  We are choosing all the time, even when we refuse to choose.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and especially Guildenstern, may not want to choose, but they are choosing anyway.

While the setup of the play mitigates against the idea of free will – Rosencrantz and Guildenstern must perform their roles in Hamlet and are not free to choose otherwise – there is a third way of looking at the human condition that encompasses both free will and determinism.  And it is a way that is consistent with the existentialist point of view with which Stoppard is usually associated.  It is called compatibilism, and I think it is what the play is mainly about.  Compatibilism proposes that “My action is free, because the event which immediately precedes it is an act of will; it is necessitated because it comes at the end of a series each of whose items is a necessary consequence of its predecessor.”[7]

That is, in retrospect, we can look at a result and see how a chain of causes and effects led to the result.  But, we can also see the choices that were made in creating that chain of events, and we can see that if different choices had been made, the chain would have been changed and the result would have been different.  In turn, we can prospectively see the options we have and choices we must make, which will be the beginning of another chain of events.  We have free will, but it operates within the constraints of our context which consists of chains of events that we cannot change.  For Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, their context is the play Hamlet, but they are free to move about within the constraints of that play.

Compatibilism essentially encompasses what existentialists describe as the facticity and anxiety of the human situation.  The facticity is that we find ourselves in a universe that we didn’t make or choose, that we don’t control, and that is essentially indifferent to our existence.  The anxiety stems from the fact that we must choose what to do, and how to make our way.  Refusing to choose, which we are free to do, is still choosing.  And we can’t make choices or make our way on our own.  We must do what we can with what we have, and do it with others.  Others are part of our context.  The stories of our lives are inevitably intertwined with others, and we can do nothing without the cooperation of others.

“I’ll let you be in my dream if you’ll let me be in yours,” intones Bob Dylan in a song about surviving the nightmare of nuclear war.  No one’s survival is secure without the survival of the others.[8]  Hamlet tried to compose and enact his story on his own, not trusting to include even his best friend Horatio in his plans, and Hamlet failed badly.  His story became a bloody nightmare that none of the principles escaped.  If only he had confided to Horatio about his interactions with the Ghost, the play may have ended very differently, and he might have survived.  So might have Ophelia, Polonius, and Laertes, who were innocent bystanders to Hamlet’s story, as were Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern made a similar choice to spin out their tale on their own, without confiding in Hamlet or anyone else, and they, too, did not survive.  But they could have.

5. In for a penny, in for a pounding: Rationale vs. Rationalization.

“Try again.  Fail again.  Fail better.” Samuel Beckett.

Literature is full of twosome heroes and heroines.  The pairs can take different forms and serve different functions within the stories in which they appear.  Sometimes, as with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, the dominant character is the smarter of the two and comes up with the answers to their problems.  Other times, as with Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, it is the subordinate character who is smarter and has the answers.  Quixote is a scholar while Panza is illiterate, but Quixote is also a fool and Panza is clever.  In the play Waiting for Godot, to which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is often compared, the dominant character, Vladimir, is the more intellectual of the two.  He frequently philosophizes and rationalizes about the predicament in which he and his sidekick, Estragon, find themselves.  And his conclusions generally help.  So, the two of them are able to work through their crises, and make their situation bearable.[9]

In Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the dominant character, Guildenstern, is the more intellectual of the two, but his rationalizations of their situation only lead the two of them into deeper trouble.  Rosencrantz is intellectually feeble, but intuitively a genius.  In the 1990 movie version of the play, which was directed by Stoppard, Rosencrantz repeatedly stumbles into inventing all sorts of modern devices.  He also repeatedly tells Guildenstern that something is dreadfully wrong with the situation they are in and that they should get out of there fast.  Guildenstern, however, dismisses Rosencrantz’s inventions in the movie as silly and, in both the movie and in the script for the play, he dismisses Rosencrantz’s rationales for leaving as foolish.  Guildenstern, instead, constructs rationalizations for their staying the course.  So, they stay.

Guildenstern’s rationalizations essentially take the form of what in scientific circles during Shakespeare’s time were known as “saving the appearances.”  “Saving the appearances” was a phrase that from ancient times through the seventeenth century was applied to the attempts of astronomers to make sense of the geo-centered Ptolemaic model of the universe.  The Ptolemaic model put the Earth at the center of the universe and portrayed the other planets and the stars as revolving around the Earth.  Over the course of the centuries, however, astronomers discovered new planets and stars that did not fit within the original geo-centered model.  So, they adduced increasingly weird orbits for these planets and stars – epicycles and other wrinkles – in order to save the appearances of the model.  It was a brilliant construction that occupied some of the best minds for two millenniums, but it became very complicated and convoluted.

The Ptolemaic system was finally rejected by Copernicus and his followers during the sixteenth century in favor of a simpler helio-centric model that encompassed all of the observations of the planets and stars without all of the complications of the geo-centered model.  Conservatives, including the Catholic Church, resisted the new model on the grounds that it demoted the place of humanity within God’s creation and conflicted with passages in the Bible.  For the Catholic Church of that time, science was supposed to serve dogma, and facts were supposed to be massaged to uphold what was considered Gospel.  Willingness to go along with saving the appearances in astronomy and other scientific fields became a life and death issue for scientists in some Catholic countries, as Galileo, among others, found out.[10]

The Copernican system was, however, readily accepted in Protestant countries such as Shakespeare’s England, where the practice of saving the appearances of preconceived notions through rationalizing away inconsistent evidence was rejected by empiricists such as Frances Bacon.  For many Protestants, science was a means of discovering God’s word as it was embodied in the physical universe.  So, facts mattered, even in the study of alchemy, magic and ghosts, which were important subjects of study for scientists such as Bacon and, later, Newton.  And theories must conform to the facts.

The conflict between facts and preconceived notions, and the problems that arise when people try to save the appearances of preconceived notions, is a theme in many of Shakespeare’s plays.  This includes Hamlet, as when Hamlet adjures Horatio that “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”  Facts count, Shakespeare repeatedly emphasizes, even if they don’t fit our cherished theories.  The problem with trying to save the appearances is also a main theme in Stoppard’s plays, as exemplified in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern by Guildenstern’s rationalizations of his and Rosencrantz’s situation.

Guildenstern seems unable to think outside the box, to use the current terminology for the problem of trying to save appearances.  He has been caught up within the Hamlet story and cannot think his way out.  He is brilliant and knowledgeable, but terminally narrow-minded.  “We are presented with alternatives,” he intones, “But not choice.”  “We’ve been caught up” in Hamlet’s story, he explains, and “there is a logic at work.”  So, he concludes, he and Rosencrantz should just relax and “be taken in hand and led, like being a child again.”[11]

Rosencrantz is slow-witted and ignorant, and doesn’t even seem to know there is a box.  But that enables him to be inventive (look at all the things he unwittingly contrives) and intuitive.  He can think outside the story, and can think pragmatically rather than dogmatically.  He knows trouble when he senses it.  Rosencrantz is a wise fool, a type that is a favorite of Stoppard.[12]

6. What is to be done?

 “There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.”  Jean Paul Sartre.

Given that they are caught in Hamlet and can’t contravene that script, there are still things Rosencrantz and Guildenstern could have done in their own play that might have saved them from the death announced in Hamlet.  Built into Stoppard’s play are opportunities for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to make choices that could have changed things for them.  They were not fated to act as they did, even if they failed to take advantage of the opportunities that Stoppard provides for them.   They could, for example, have confided in Hamlet at various points of their play.  Shakespeare provides a perfect opening for such a confidence in Hamlet when Hamlet first encounters Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

After welcoming Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as old friends, Hamlet asks “Were you not sent for?…Come, come deal justly with me.”  Hamlet wants to know whether the King has set them to spy on him.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern equivocate.  Hamlet repeatedly presses them, conjuring them “by the rights of our fellowship, by the constancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love.”  Prompted by Rosencrantz, Guildenstern finally admits “My lord, we were sent for.”  The three of them then engage in desultory conversation, ending in the coming of the actors whom Hamlet will hire for his play.

This was a perfect opportunity within the context of Hamlet for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to consult with Hamlet in the context of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  Having admitted that the King had sent for them to spy on Hamlet, they could reasonably have followed up that admission with a discussion with their old friend about what was going on.  This is particularly the case since in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the two of them quickly come to their own conclusion that Claudius murdered Hamlet’s father.  Once they have reached that conclusion, it is unreasonable of them not to open up with Hamlet.  But they choose not to.

There were many opportunities within both Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for them to consult with Hamlet.  But Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hem and haw throughout the play, saying to themselves that they want to talk with Hamlet, but unable to get themselves to do it.  They even practice various ways in which to begin conversations with Hamlet, but never carry them out.  In any case, Guildenstern’s rationalizations in defense of doing nothing keep them from saying or doing anything that might change their situation.  That was their choice.

Their rationalizing and equivocating come to a head when the two of them discover in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that the letter from Claudius that they are carrying to England requests that the King of England kill Hamlet.  At that point, Rosencrantz has had enough.  He wants to confide in Hamlet.  “We’re his friends,” Rosencrantz insists.  How can they be accomplices to the murder of Hamlet?

But Rosencrantz’s humanity is overridden by Guildenstern’s callousness and cowardice, as he once again rationalizes in favor of doing nothing.  Death isn’t so bad, he claims, and Hamlet’s death would be just one man dying so, “from the social point of view…the loss would be well within reason and convenience.”  Besides, Guildenstern concludes, “there are wheels within wheels,” and who are they to try to change things.  It is bad faith rationalization at its worst, and it is that which leads to their own deaths.[13]

If Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had confided in Hamlet at any point in the play, the three of them could have worked out a joint plan for saving all of their lives.  Since Hamlet was explicitly doomed by the script of Hamlet – he dies onstage in full view of the audience – such a plan would not have saved him.  But it could have worked for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  Their deaths are only announced in Hamlet, not actually seen by the audience.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern could, for example, have colluded with Hamlet to change Claudius’ letter as Hamlet does in Hamlet. They could then have faked the deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, so as to avoid any blame and punishment that Claudius might hit them with because his scheme for Hamlet’s death had failed.  Hamlet’s later comment to Horatio in Hamlet that he cared not that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern might be dead could then be part of this joint plot.  Stoppard could have written something like this into his play – the key is faking the deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – without contradicting Hamlet.  He didn’t.  Why not?

7. Comedy, Tragedy, and a Good Conscience.

“Life begins on the other side of despair.”  Jean Paul Sartre.

“The play’s the thing wherein to capture the conscience of the king,” Hamlet proclaims.  So, too, the play may be the thing to capture the consciences of the audience for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, or maybe touch their vanity.  Hamlet is a tragedy.  A tragedy has been described as a story of too much of a good thing becoming bad.  Tragedy generally involves a character who pursues a too narrowly prescribed good too far until it turns on itself, becomes bad and precipitates a disaster.  The character’s “tragic flaw” is a lack of perspective, the failure to see things in a broader context, for example failing to recognize that one person’s good may be someone else’s bad, and an individual’s good ultimately depends on the good of all.[14]

Tragedy is a story of hubris versus humility, the failure of the tragic character to recognize his/her personal limits, and to reconcile contradictions within him/herself, within his/her society and/or between him/herself and society.[15]  In the case of Hamlet, it is arguably his hubris combined with his gullibility toward the ghost who, I think, is an agent of the Devil, that leads almost inevitably to disaster.[16]  In any case, a tragedy may contain humor, but it is not expected to be funny.

In contrast with Hamlet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is a comedy.  It is expected to be funny.  A comedy has been described as a humorous conflict between folly and wisdom, foolish people and wise people, with a happy ending that results from the wise peacefully overcoming the fools and their foolishness.  In comedy, the problem is created by someone acting out of stupidity or ignorance, “the intervention of fools.”  The solution is for the fools either to be corrected or constrained.[17]

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are both fools.  Much of their story is also very funny.  But the play ends with their being hanged.  That’s not funny.  And while they don’t know what’s in store for them as they wander through their play, we do.  How can an audience in good conscience laugh at the high jinks and foolishness of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern knowing that the play will end after the somber line “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead?”

I don’t think an audience can in good conscience laugh at the thought of the deaths of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  I think that either members of the audience must be people of bad conscience, smug in their superior knowledge to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and callous at the death of two fools – losers in the parlance of Donald Trump – or audience members must believe that somehow Rosencrantz and Guildenstern aren’t really dead.  And maybe they aren’t.

8. Epilogue: Life after reported death?

Estragon: “I can’t go on.” 

Vladimir: “That’s what you think.” 

Waiting for Godot.  Samuel Beckett.

When his demise was wrongly reported in the newspapers of his day, Mark Twain quipped “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”  Might the same be true of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?  In his last speech before seemingly being executed, Guildenstern muses that “Well, we’ll know better next time.”  Next time?  What’s with this “next time?”

In the movie version of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the actors that Hamlet has hired show Rosencrantz and Guildenstern how to fake being hanged.  At the end of the movie, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are shown being hanged.  But are they?  Maybe it’s a fake hanging.  In the play, they merely disappear at the end, and it is not clear how they died.  Or maybe they didn’t.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern make farewell speeches, but maybe they are just fooling everyone, including us in the audience.  Are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern actually dead?

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is full of trickery and slight-of-hand, starting with the opening scene in which a flipped coin repeatedly comes up heads, seeming to contradict the laws of probability.  Then there are the numerous inventions that Rosencrantz stumbles onto in the movie version of the play, which was directed by Stoppard.  In the movie version, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are also repeatedly saved by chance or random choice from discovery or death.  Faking their deaths at the end of the play could be Stoppard’s last bit of trickery, a trick played on the audience.

In any case, dead or alive, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is, I think, ultimately a hopeful play.  Despite operating within an extremely narrow range of options, being tied into and almost tied up by the script of Hamlet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern still had options to survive the demise announced for them in that play.  If they didn’t survive, it was a result of their own lack of imagination and their own choices.  In his farewell speech, Guildenstern muses that they should have just said “No” when they were summoned by the King.  And they should have.  A moral of their story is that you don’t want to get caught up in someone else’s story in which you are just a throwaway bystander.

So, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern made a fateful misstep into Hamlet’s story.  But that fateful misstep need not have become a fatal mistake.  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern implies that in even the tightest and direst situations, there still may be leeway and hope.  And just when you may seem to be without options, there may still be choices you can make.

B.W. 12/17

[1] Tom Stoppard. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.  New York: Grove Press, 1967. pp.16, 38.

[2] Evar Johnson. “Characters in search of a purpose: Meaning in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.” belmont.edu

[3] “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as Existential Antiheroes.” The Stanford Freedom Project. Fall, 2015.

[4] Peter Travers. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.” Rolling Stone. 2/18/91.

[5] Shmuel Ben-Gad. “A Semi-Existentialist Comedy: Tom Stoppard’s ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.’” American Culture. 5/20/15.

[6] Tom Stoppard. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.  New York: Grove Press, 1967. pp..25, 63, 79.

[7] Anthony Kennedy. A New History of Western Philosophy. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2010. p.666.

[8] Bob Dylan. Talkin’ World War III Blues.

[9] For an analysis of the play as a love story, see my post on this blog “Waiting for Godot: Why do we keep waiting? Hope among the Hopeless.”                       

[10] Thomas B. Kuhn. The Copernican Revolution. New York: Vintage Books, 1959.

[11] Tom Stoppard. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.  New York: Grove Press, 1967. pp.39- 40.

[12] For an analysis of Arcadia that discusses this theme, see my essay on this blog entitled “Entropy, Negentropy and Chaos in Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia: Must We Face the Music or Can’t We Just Dance?”

[13] Tom Stoppard. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.  New York: Grove Press, 1967. p.110.

[14] Paul Goodman. The Structure of Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954. pp.35, 172.

[15] Kenneth Burke Attitudes toward History. Boston: Beacon Press, 1961. p.37.  Aristotle. Aristotle’s Poetics. New York: Hill & Wang, 1961. p.81-83.

[16] For a discussion of the ghost in Hamlet as an agent of the Devil, see my post at this blog website “Better Dead than Red: Hamlet and the Cold War against Catholicism in Elizabethan England.”

[17] Aristotle 1961, 59.  Burke 1961, 41.  Goodman 1954, 82-100.

Parsing Jean Paul Sartre’s “Huis Clos.” Is it “No Exit” or “Closed Door?” “The Gaze” or “Bad Faith?” It’s your choice and it’s a Rorschach Test of your character.

Parsing Jean Paul Sartre’s “Huis Clos.”

Is it “No Exit” or “Closed Door?” “The Gaze” or “Bad Faith?”

It’s your choice and it’s a Rorschach Test of your character.

Burton Weltman

“Freedom is what we do with what is done to us”

          John-Paul Sartre.

Prologue: Looking for an Honest Man.

Diogenes the Cynic, so the story goes, spent his life searching for an honest man.  So, too, I think, did Jean-Paul Sartre, and his play No Exit is an instance of his search.  The thesis of this essay is twofold: (1) The play is best seen as a dramatization of Sartre’s philosophical concept of “bad faith” rather than, as it is usually interpreted, his concept of “the gaze” or “the look.”  The behavior of the characters is intended to be seen as a function of their dishonesty toward themselves and each other, rather than their scrutiny of each other; and, (2) The play essentially functions as a sort of Rorschach Test of the good faith of its readers and viewers.  People who see the play as a reflection of “the gaze” will likely tolerate “bad faith” in themselves and expect it in others.  And that is the moral and morality of the story.

No Exit or In Camera: What’s in a Name?

“But, my dear man, reality is only a Rorschach ink-blot, you know.”

            Alan Watts.

No Exit is a one-act play written in 1943 by Jean-Paul Sartre.  First performed in 1944 in Nazi occupied Paris, its title in the original French is Huis Clos.  It portrays the tribulations of three recently deceased people who find themselves together in a small room in what they think is Hell.  They quickly realize that they are completely incompatible as roommates, with each one grating horribly on the other two.  They conclude that the almighty authorities of the universe have condemned them to being psychologically tortured by each other for all eternity.

The play is a dark drama that has been a mainstay of the stage from the mid-1940’s to the present day.  It is widely held to “capture Sartre’s existentialism,” and to dramatize the essentials of existentialist philosophy.[1]  Although reviewers rarely cite Sartre’s philosophical concepts of “the gaze” and “bad faith,” their interpretations almost invariably reflect those concepts because they are deeply embedded in the play.  Most reviewers focus on aspects of the play that reflect “the gaze” as representing the meaning and moral of the drama.  This essay presents an argument to the contrary.

There is very little action in the play.  It consists mainly of the three main characters talking to each other and looking at each other.  Each of the characters, a man and two women, has a long history of sociopathic behavior, the truth of which emerges as the play unfolds.  They all initially claim to be innocent of wrongdoing, but each one wilts under the grilling of the other two, and they all eventually admit to having repeatedly in their lives betrayed and abused those who loved and depended on them.

The man, Garcin, regularly abused his wife, and was executed for betraying his comrades and deserting the army in time of war.  Estelle, one of the women, was a female philanderer, who betrayed her husband, killed her unwanted baby, and effectively drove her lover to suicide.  Inez, the other woman, was a lesbian, who was killed by her abused lover, who also killed herself.

The characters constitute an anti-menage-a-trois.  Inez immediately becomes sexually attracted to Estelle, but Estelle is repelled by lesbianism.  Estelle is sexually attracted to Garcin, but Garcin insists on getting emotional support from her that she is incapable of giving.  Garcin, in turn, looks to Inez for emotional support, but she despises him and won’t give it.  They are committed narcissists, and are unwilling or unable to connect with each other.

Having realized their incompatibility, the characters make ineffective efforts to ignore each other.  But they are goaded and galled by the existence of the others.  So, the three of them emotionally torture each other in a vicious cycle of attraction and repulsion, and conclude that tormenting each other for eternity is their hellish fate.  This is also the conclusion that most interpreters of the play reach.  I don’t agree.

The French title of the play, Huis Clos, has usually been translated into English as No Exit. But the phrase huis clos literally means “closed door” in French, and colloquially means in camera.  In camera refers to a court proceeding that is conducted privately in a judge’s chambers behind closed doors.  Translating the play’s title as No Exit implies that the trial of the three characters is over, the judging has been finally done, and they have been conclusively sentenced to Hell.  In this view, the characters have become what they really are, their essences have been exposed to view, and there are no choices available to them to change their ways and their fates.

Translating the title as In Camera, however, implies that their trial is still ongoing, final judgments have not been rendered, and the characters might still be able to do things that could change their fates. That is, they have been placed in a sort of Purgatory, and are not necessarily permanently ensconced in Hell.  In this view, the action in the play is part of their trial, the authorities are watching and waiting to render a final judgment, and there are still choices the characters could make to change their ways and alter their fates.

The majority translation of the title is No Exit, the minority is In Camera.  Although few commentators on the play make explicit reference to Sartre’s philosophical works, their differences in translating the title of the play, and corresponding differences in interpreting it, can be translated into Sartrean philosophical terms.  Sartre published his major philosophical work Being and Nothingness in 1943, the same year as the play.[2]  In this book, he developed his ideas of “the gaze” and “bad faith” that are represented in the play

The majority view that the title should be No Exit corresponds with a view of the play that emphasizes Sartre’s philosophical concept of “the gaze.”  The minority view that the title should be In Camera corresponds with Sartre’s philosophical concept of “bad faith.”  Proponents of each view can point to elements of the play in support of their positions, and the play does not conclusively back either.

In fact, the play may function as a sort of Rorschach Test of the social inclinations of its audience.  A Rorschach Test is a bunch of images that a person is asked to make sense of.  The sense the person makes of the images is ostensibly an indication of how the person thinks, and what the person is like.  No Exit/In Camera seems to function in this way.  The way a person interprets the play may be an indication of how the person views him/herself and the world.

The primary thesis of this essay is that the play is best titled in English as In Camera, and best seen as a criticism of the three main characters as people who are guilty of “bad faith.”  A secondary thesis is that interpreting the play in terms of “the gaze” could reflect an inclination on the part of interpreters towards tolerating bad faith in others, and possibly themselves.

To See or Not to See, that is the Question: The Gaze and Bad Faith.

“You are not what you are, and you are what you are not”

            John-Paul Sartre.

Sartre’s concept of “the gaze” describes an ontological and psychological process that he claims is characteristic of most elementary interactions between people.  This process can be analyzed into three main components.  First, we live surrounded by other people who are continually trying to foist on us their image of what they think we are.  They take a sample of things we have done, and fashion out of those things a fixed and finished persona which they then use to judge us.  Second, we are continually being watched and judged by other people.  In the face of all that scrutiny, we are inclined to accept and act in accordance with the fixed and finished personas they have crafted for us.  Third, in accepting those fixed and finished images of ourselves, we end up being robbed by others of our freedom to choose who we will be and what we will do in the future.  The net result is that we can end up trapped in our past as it has been interpreted by others.  Ontologically and psychologically, we become their prisoners.[3]

In Sartre’s words, “the gaze” is an attempt by “the Other” to objectify me based on things I have done, and make me conform to his/her conception of me.  The Other tries to make me one-dimensional and predictable, which robs me of choice and a future different than my past.  In turn, I try to do the same to him/her.  “While I attempt to free myself from the hold of the Other, the Other is trying to free himself (sic) from mine; while I seek to enslave the Other, the Other seeks to enslave me.”[4]  Existence, in the face of “the gaze,” is a war of each against all, and all against each, with each person trying to assert his/her freedom by psychologically imprisoning the others.  In turn, other people are enemies that one must battle to be free.

In the majority view of No Exit, the most telling line in the play is Garcin’s despairing cry toward the end that “Hell is other people!”  This declaration has become an oft-repeated, iconic Sartrean line, and most critics would seemingly agree with the statement of one commentator that “No dramatist ever summed up a work more succinctly than Jean-Paul Sartre did in that line from No Exit.”[5] Garcin was prompted to this cri de coeur by his frustration at being stuck with two incompatible and incorrigible roommates, their mere presence galling him, especially their continually watching him.  He is in agony at being imprisoned by their scrutiny.    

The plight of which Garcin complains is an example of “the gaze.”  In the play, each of the characters attempts to pin a label on the others, and pin them down so that they can be controlled thereby.  Inez labels Garcin a coward.  Estelle labels Inez a pervert.  Inez labels Estelle a baby killer.  And so on.  In turn, each tries to escape the labeling of the others.  Looking is labeling, which is shaming, which is controlling.

Most commentators on the play seem to accept this situation as the moral of the play and of Sartre’s existentialist philosophy.  They claim that the characters are being seen by the others as they really are, that the characters cannot change who they are, and that the same goes for us in the audience.  Like the characters in the play, “We constantly feel scrutinized by others,” and this scrutiny reveals our essence, something we may have tried to cover up, but can do so no longer.[6]   The three characters in the play have become “finished fully formed souls facing who they are,”[7] and Hell is other people because other people “see us as we really are.”[8]

Or as another critic put it, Hell is “where the accumulated failures of a lifetime are endlessly enacted.”[9]  We are our history, and we are forever bound by the causal chains of past events as those events are seen by others.  Others’ views of us, thereby, become a prison from which we cannot escape, even in death.[10]  At least, that is what the characters claim and complain about.

But their views may not be Sartre’s view.  The three characters are, after all, sociopaths who seem to be continuing their lifelong practice of blaming everyone and everything else, other than themselves, for their problems.  I think the play is better seen as a portrayal of Sartre’s concept of “bad faith,” something of which the characters, and maybe many of us, are guilty.

Bad faith is the other side of the ontological coin from “the gaze.”  It, too, can be analyzed into three main components.  First, we tend to want to settle on fixed and finished images of ourselves.  These images may be of own fashioning or the fashioning of others, and may be favorable or even unfavorable.  In any case, we accept them as who we really are.  Second, we try to foist those fixed and finished images of ourselves on others.  We insist that the images represent the real and unchangeable us.  Third, we try to renounce our freedom to choose what we will do and be in the future, and thereby try to avoid responsibility for those choices.  We pretend that we have no choice but to be what we are, and no exit from where we happen to be.

Bad faith is an attempt to escape freedom.  But it is a lie, because ontologically we cannot escape from the fact that we freely choose our fates.  We exercise our freedom of choice even as we choose to renounce that freedom, and try to avoid committing ourselves to a future.  “We can define man only in relation to his commitments,” Sartre claims, and we are continually committing ourselves to one thing and then the next, whether we like it or not.  Commitment cannot be avoided.  “Bad faith is obviously a lie,” Sartre concludes, “because it is a dissimulation of man’s full freedom of commitment.”[11]  In this context, the attempt of the characters in the play to blame their miserable situation on the looks of their roommates or on the almighty authorities, rather than on their own choices, can be seen as an example of bad faith.

The problem of bad faith, but also its solution, arises from the fact of human self-consciousness.   As soon as a person becomes something, the person’s self-consciousness of that fact puts him/her beyond that something.  The person must then choose and commit to be something else.  Bad faith is an effort to deny the ontological reality that you are your future choices, and to avoid having to choose what one will do and become next, by holding permanently onto what one has already done or become.[12] It is an attempt to use the past to avoid having to make present choices toward the future.  But, Sartre counsels, the past is not who we are, but merely the material out of which we construct our future selves.  The future is everything.[13]

Self-consciousness is the source of the problem by making us aware of the fragility of ourselves, but it is also the solution in providing us the means of choosing to commit ourselves to the next thing, and to do it with others, not against them.  In this view, others are not the enemy, we are the enemy when we try to imprison ourselves in ossified self-images.  The only way out of that bind is to work with others.  We cannot escape others, and we would be nothing without them.  It is only through cooperating with them that we can be free.  When we freely commit with others to a common cause, we pull all of us into the future.

In this interpretation of the play as a portrayal of bad faith, the telling line is uttered by Garcin toward the middle of the play, when the characters are considering ways they might cooperate with each other and make their coexistence tolerable.  He says that “A man is what he wills himself to be.”  But Garcin does not follow up on this insight.  He merely talks about committing himself to change, but does not put that talk into practice.

The telling moment in this view of the play comes shortly after, when Garcin beats on the door, demanding to be let out, and the door opens.  He and the women are then faced with the choice of leaving or staying.  After brief consideration, each of them chooses to stay, and they close the door.  They then rationalize their decision along the lines of the devil you know is better than the one you don’t know, but it is clear they are committed to staying where and how they are.  They don’t want to change, and this is their free choice.  This commitment is an instance of ontological cowardice and bad faith in Sartrean terms.

“Bad faith” and “the gaze” are essentially two sides of the same coin.  Both are violations of the Sartrean principle that we are all caught up in a perpetual stream of becoming.  But seeing things in terms of “bad faith” forces you to take responsibility for where and what you are, and for making choices about what and where you will be next.  Seeing things in terms of “the gaze” gives you a way to rationalize doing nothing, and resigning yourself to the status quo.  It can be a cop out, and an instance of bad faith, as I think it is for the characters in this play.  Sartrean existentialism means that we are never a fixed and finished product, and that we are continually having to choose what we become next, whether we and others want to recognize it or not.

Existentialism and the Human Condition: Resignation or Resistance?

“Commitment is an act, not a word.”

            Jean-Paul Sartre.

If No Exit/In Camera was intended by Sartre to be what I have loosely called a sort of Rorschach Test, he does not make it easy to pass the test.  There is a lot of looking and a lot of “the gaze” in the play.  As it opens, all of the three characters are absorbed in watching what is being said about them by people they knew who are still alive on earth.  They complain that they are being defined and defiled by people whom they did not like and who did not like them.  Their past deeds are being used to hang a fixed image on them.  And they cannot do anything about it.  This is an example of “the gaze” in operation.

When these visions fade away, and the characters are cut off from life on earth, they begin watching each other.  The room they are in is small.  It contains three couches and an ugly little statue.  It has no mirrors.  There are no books.  The characters are unable to sleep.  There is nothing to do except think, talk, and look at each other.  With no mirrors and no one else with whom to talk, each can see him/herself only through the eyes and the words of the other two.  Since they are in perpetual conflict with each other, it is not a pretty picture that they each see of themselves.  This is another example of “the gaze” in practice.

From these scenes comes the majority’s interpretation that the play is based on “the gaze,” and that it espouses a misanthropic anti-social individualism.  The majority view accepts the resignation of the characters to their situation at the end of the play as the message of the play.  It is the triumph of “the gaze,” and the last line of the play ostensibly sums it up.  In this line, Garcin declares his and the other characters’ acceptance of an eternity of mutual incrimination and self-incrimination with the sigh “Eh bien, continuons.”  This line is usually translated as “Well, let’s get on with it,” but it literally means “OK, let’s continue” which is, I think, a better translation.  With this line, Garcon declares that the three of them have no choice but to continue what they have been doing, and most commentators agree.  But is that the intended message of the play?  I think not.

I think that “bad faith” trumps “the gaze” as the primary message of the play.  “The look” is what others try to do to me when they recognize my separate existence, and what I try to do to them in return if we are not mutually committed and engaged in a joint enterprise.  Social relations are antagonistic unless we are mutually committed and engaged in a joint enterprise.  Sartre explains that “I will always depend on my comrades-in-arms in the struggle, inasmuch as they are committed, as I am, to a definite common cause.”[14]  Comradeship in a commitment to a common cause can dissipate the effects of “the gaze.”  Failing to join with others, and merely accepting the effects of “the gaze,” is bad faith.

This view of the play is supported by the context of its original production.  Huis Clos was first performed in Paris during the Nazi occupation of France in World War II.  Sartre had previously been incarcerated by the Germans as a prisoner of war, but had escaped and then joined the underground French Resistance to the Nazis.  Working in the Resistance required intense collaboration with others, and perilous reliance on the courage and good faith of others.  It also required vigilance against Nazi collaborators and bad faith infiltrators.

Even as he was risking his life in the Resistance, Sartre daringly produced writings that could be interpreted as encouraging that resistance.  In this context, Huis Clos can be seen as having been “written in direct response to the intellectual paralysis of German-occupied Paris,” that is the hell on earth that was Nazi rule.  The intent of the play was to encourage people to “embrace honesty and hope,” rather than the cowardice, dishonesty and misanthropy of the three characters.[15]  The play, in this view, implicitly calls for resistance rather than resignation to hellishness.  This includes resistance to “the gaze” with which the Nazis were trying to demoralize and imprison the French, but also “the gaze” with which the French were demoralizing and imprisoning themselves.

Praxis makes Perfect: Existence precedes Essence.

Inez: “They’re waiting.”

Garcin: “They’re watching.”

The majority view of No Exit reflects a very cynical view of social relations, more so than even that of Diogenes the original Cynic.  Diogenes at least continued his search for an honest man.  In the majority view of the play, Sartre has given up.  The play portrays the views of three narcissistic sociopaths, who have betrayed everyone around them, and who seemingly have no significant experience of commitment to anyone.  No choice and no exit could be the mantras of their lives.  In the majority view, the three characters represent us in the audience and their predicament represents ours.  In turn, the majority view is that the characters’ cynical views of the world represent Sartre’s views.

But maybe that isn’t the case.  Maybe the play has a less cynical message.  At several points in the play, the characters claim that the higher authorities seem to be looking down on them.  They rationalize this scrutiny as the authorities’ controlling the characters’ every move, after having planned their punishments down to the smallest details.  This scrutiny from on high becomes a further excuse for the three characters to do nothing to change their ways.  “The Devil made me do it” is essentially their excuse.

But this excuse is essentially a cop-out, and another instance of bad faith.  It seems just as likely that the authorities are watching the three of them to see what the three are doing, and to see if they warrant any further punishment.  It is just as likely that the fates of the three are not sealed, and that their present behavior is being judged by higher authorities, which includes us in the audience.  We, too, are watching them, judging them, and waiting to see if they can take steps to change their ways and their situation.  Like maybe walking out the door when it opens.  I have watched the play many times, and I keep hoping that the characters will someday walk out that open door.

As to the Rorschach Test, those who interpret the play in terms of “the gaze” are, in effect, giving the characters a pass on the characters’ ongoing responsibility for their predicament.  These interpreters are willing to accept the characters’ bad faith rationalizations of their resignation, and their bad faith excuse for continuing to do just what they had always done.  If these interpreters are willing to accept others’ bad faith excuses for inaction, maybe they would also be inclined to rationalize their own unwillingness to take responsibility for their own choices and for joining with others to make a better world?

In this majority view, the play promotes resignation to the fact that the human condition is hell on earth, and in the hereafter.  I don’t buy that view.  I think that view is itself an instance of bad faith thinking, and represents the sort of cynicism that led Diogenes to become a Cynic.  I contend that Huis Clos is a call to arms against bad faith, and that the message of the play is that you are never fixed in who you are or by what you have done.  You can always do something different, because the next opportunity to choose immediately succeeds the last choice.  And the only way to realize your own freedom is through promoting the freedom of others.

June 23, 2017.

[1] Francesca Baretta. “Review ‘No Exit.’” The Oxford Cultural Review. 6/2/16.

[2] Jean Paul Sartre.  Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. New York: Philosophical Library, 1956.

[3] Jean Paul Sartre.  Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. New York: Philosophical Library, 1956. pp.252 et seq.

[4] Jean Paul Sartre.  Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. New York: Philosophical Library, 1956. p.364.

[5] Lawrence Bommer. “Review of No Exit.”  Chicago Reader. 9/6/90.

[6] Francesca Baretta. “Review ‘No Exit.’” The Oxford Cultural Review. 6/2/16.

[7] Leah Frank.  “Theater Review; ‘No Exit,’ Sartre’s Version of Hell.” The New York Times. 10/22/89.

[8] Leah Frank.  “Theater Review; ‘No Exit,’ Sartre’s Version of Hell.” The New York Times. 10/22/89.

[9] Lawrence Bommer. “Review of No Exit.”  Chicago Reader. 9/6/90.

[10] Robert Hurwitt. “’No Exit’ Review: Welcome to Hotel Sartre.” SFGATE. 4/14/11.   Zachary Stewart. “No Exit.” Theatre Mania. 3/9/14.  Mike Fischer. “Theater Review: Self-absorbed pay the price in ‘No Exit.Milwaukee Wisconsin Journal Sentinal. 8/12/16.

[11] Jean-Paul Sartre. Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2007. p.46, 48.

[12] Jean Paul Sartre.  Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. New York: Philosophical Library, 1956. p.66.

[13] Jean-Paul Sartre. Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2007. p.47.

[14] Jean-Paul Sartre. Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2007. p.35.

[15] David Rooney. “The Other People Are Back: Do They Ever Leave? Sartre’s ‘No Exit’” The New York Times. 3/12/14.

Strangers in an Estranged Land: A Reexamination of Camus’ “The Stranger” and Review of Daoud’s “The Meursault Investigation.”

Strangers in an Estranged Land.
A Reexamination of Camus’ The Stranger
                  and Review of Daoud’s The Meursault Investigation               

Burton Weltman

Do not mistreat or oppress a stranger,

for you were strangers in Egypt.

Exodus 22:21

 A.  Dead Men Talking: Albert Camus’ Meursault and Kamel Daoud’s Musa.

“If the world were clear, art would not exist.”

Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus.[1]

Does it matter if a literary work is widely misread in a way that is contrary to the intentions of its author and/or the plain meaning of the text?  It clearly matters if a legal text is misread.  The Second Amendment to the United States Constitution, for example, has recently been misread by a majority of the Justices on the United States Supreme Court to function as a guarantee of the right of people to keep guns in their homes and carry guns with them almost anywhere they want.  This is a misunderstanding of the intentions of the Second Amendment’s authors and a misreading of the plain language of the Amendment’s text that is so unreasonable and so contrary to the facts of the Amendment’s adoption as to be absurd.[2]  It is a misreading that has, however, contributed to the proliferation of guns and the epidemic of gun violence in the United States, and people are dying because of it.  It clearly matters.  But what about the misreading of a literary text?  Does that matter?

The premise of Kamel Daoud’s recent novel The Meursault Investigation[3] is that the misreading of a literary text does matter, and the narrator of Daoud’s book claims that Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger has almost invariably been misread for over seventy years since its publication in 1942.  The Stranger is the story of the murder of an Arab by a Frenchman in colonial Algeria.  The murderer’s name is Meursault and he is the narrator of the book.  Meursault has, much to his surprise, been found guilty of premeditated murder and sentenced to death for shooting the Arab.  He had assumed that he would be found guilty of the lesser offense of unpremeditated manslaughter or not guilty by reason of self-defense.  Although an appeal of his sentence is pending, Meursault tells his story while facing possible execution, and death envelops the book.  It opens with the death of Meursault’s mother, is punctuated by the Arab’s death, and closes with the prospect of Meursault’s death.  Meursault tells his story in deadpanned language, and portrays himself as an emotionally deadened person who has endured life in a chronically depressed state.

For many reviewers over the years, Meursault has been seen as the ideal of an honest and dispassionate man, and an existentialist or absurdist hero.[4]  This seems also to be the view of the general reading public, based on comments provided on popular websites that can be taken as reflecting mainstream public opinion.  These websites include Wikipedia (Meursault is “often cited as an exemplar of Camus’ philosophy of the absurd and existentialism.”)[5] and Sparknotes (Meursault represents “Camus’ philosophical notion of absurdity.”).[6]  Amazon reports that The Stranger remains a best seller to the present day, as it is “a staple of U.S. high school literature courses.”[7]  It is, thus, a widely read and potentially influential book.

The narrator of The Meursault Investigation is an old man named Harun who seeks to dispel Meursault’s heroic image.  His argument is based on a critical rereading of The Stranger, and on providing a side-story to Meursault’s narrative, as well as a sequel to the events in the book up to the present day.  Harun is ostensibly the brother of the Arab murdered by Meursault, and he claims to speak for his dead brother.  Harun complains that decades of readers have failed to react to the fact that his brother (whose name is Musa) is not even named in The Stranger (he is merely called “the Arab”) and that nothing is told in the book about Musa or his family.

Since no one has previously spoken for Musa, Harun claims that readers have missed the underlying meaning of the events in The Stranger.  Only Meursault’s side of the story has been told, and Musa’s death has been seen only in the light of Meursault’s brilliant portrayal of his own pathetic life.  As a result, Harun argues, Meursault has effectively gotten away with murder in the public mind, and Meursault’s account of the killing has both trivialized murder and perpetuated racist views of Arab Algerians.  Although the story dates from 1942, Harun contends that people are still dying today because of the attitudes toward murder and toward Algerians presented by Meursault in the book.  In Harun’s mind, the public’s misunderstanding of the story clearly matters.

History is full of dead men talking, and the meaning of what they said and did is often important to us.  They help us to figure out who we are and what we ought to do.  That is why historians and Supreme Court Justices continually review and revise what they think the Founders meant to say in the Constitution.  The thesis of Daoud’s book is that it is also important to set the record straight as to the meaning and message of fictional dead men.  Fiction can influence people as fully as facts can.  There are, for example, lots of young people today who cite the wisdom of Professor Dumbledore from the Harry Potter books as though he is a real person.  Daoud has provided us with the novel case of a fictional character calling out another fictional character in order to get a fictional situation right.

Getting things right in a work of fiction is not, however, always easy.  It has been said that great books are those that can be reread over and over again with the reader getting something different each time.[8]  Great books, such as The Stranger, can legitimately be interpreted many different ways.  The same can be said for the United States Constitution.  One of the things that makes the Constitution great is that it is a living document that can be interpreted in different ways as circumstances change.  However, there are some interpretations of the Constitution that are just plain wrong, such as the Supreme Court’s recent ruling on the Second Amendment.  Similarly, there are some interpretations of a novel that are just wrong, and they can have consequences.

Both The Stranger and The Meursault Investigation are written with first-person narrators. Interpretation is particularly tricky with first-person narration because it raises hard questions about to what extent and in what ways does and does not the narrator speak for the author.  It also raises questions as to the reliability of the narrator.   Conflating a first-person narrator with a book’s author, or assuming that the narrator is reliable, can lead to misunderstanding of a book.  In the cases of The Stranger and The Meursault Investigation, this problem has been exacerbated by the tendency of reviewers to focus on what they see as Camus’ philosophical views and Daoud’s social and religious views, and to ignore the psychological nuances and character development of the narrators in the course of the books.  The result is often a misunderstanding of both the authors’ views and the narrators’ characters.

It is my contention that neither Meursault nor Harun has been intended by their creators as a hero or a role model, and that neither of them can be taken as either reliable narrators or spokespersons for their authors.  Meursault’s narrative is essentially an exercise in what existentialists call “bad faith.”[9]  Jean Paul Sartre, the existentialist-in-chief, described bad faith as dodging responsibility for the effects of one’s choices.  He claimed that one has to realize that when one chooses to do or not do something, one is choosing not only what one wants to be oneself, but also “choosing at the same time what humanity as a whole should be.”  People act in bad faith when they “believe their actions involve no one but themselves.”  For Sartre, “any man who takes refuge behind his passions, any man who fabricates some deterministic theory, is operating in bad faith.”[10]

Meursault fits this description.  He does not take responsibility for his actions or for the way his actions affect others, and he seeks to explain away the harms he has done to others.  The book begins with the excuse he gave when he asked his boss for time off to go to his mother’s funeral (“Sorry, sir, but it’s not my fault, you know”), and ends with him giving himself absolution for his actions (“I’d been right, I was still right, I was always right.”).[11]  His narrative is a sustained attempt to exonerate himself for his actions.

Harun’s story is essentially a guilt trip.  It is at first an attempt to avoid guilt, then a reluctant admission of guilt and, finally, an attempt to purge himself of guilt.  It is a circuitous narrative that starts with his blaming Meursault and the world at large for the death and indignity suffered by his brother, and the hardships suffered by him and his mother.  It ends with a confession and a mea culpa for committing the murder of a Frenchman.  He begins his story by distinguishing himself from Meurault and ends by identifying with him.  They are, he acknowledges, blood brothers under the skin.[12]

Harun is an alcoholic, a self-described blowhard, and a murderer.  He is no hero and he is not Daoud.  The consequences of misreading Daoud’s book have, however, been frightening.  As a result of things that Huran says about religion, a death sentence fatwa has been issued against Daoud by a radical Muslim cleric in Algeria.  Daoud has responded that “It was a fictional character in the novel who said those things, not me,” but to no avail thus far.[13]

The thesis of the present essay is that The Stranger has been widely misread and that The Meursault Investigation seems in danger of being similarly misunderstood.  With respect to The Stranger, I think that reviewers and readers often miss that Meursault is relating and reconstructing past events, not telling about things as they happen.  They also miss that Meursault is telling his story in the immediate aftermath of being condemned to death.  They mistakenly think that Meursault is speaking for Camus.  And, they mistakenly think that Meurault represents the absurd man that Camus promoted in his book The Myth of Sisyphus.

Critics often extol the at-best amoral Meursault as some kind of existentialist hero or romantic anti-hero.  This sort of misreading demeans the work of Camus who was, above all else, a passionate moralist.  In conflating Meursault with Camus, these critics have missed what seems to be Camus’ intent that readers empathize with Meursault and see something of themselves in him, even as they hopefully disagree with him and reject his behavior.  These critics effectively undermine the moral value of the book.

With respect to The Meursault Investigation, I think that reviewers are in danger of mistakenly treating Harun as a hero, a reliable narrator, and a spokesman for Daoud.  These mistakes would diminish the social and political meaning of the work.  And that matters.

B.  Meursault in the Face of Death: The Stages of Grief.

We live “as man condemned to death.”

Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus[14]

“Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.”  These are the opening words of The Stranger.  They are generally translated as mother or mama died today.  The words seem to situate the narrator, Meursault, in the present, as though he is learning of his mother’s death at the time he is telling us about it.  The rest of that paragraph and the next also give the appearance that the narrator is describing what he is currently experiencing.  But then the narrative abruptly turns into what is clearly a description of the past, of thoughts, feelings, and events the narrator has previously experienced, and the narrative continues that way for the rest of the book.

Camus wrote The Stranger in the present perfect tense in which “etre” or “avoir” is added to the past participle of a verb in French, just as “have” is added to the past participle in English.[15]  The effect of using that tense is to produce the feeling of an indefinite past, as though the past continues into the present.  This seems to be part of what Camus is proposing in the book, that one cannot escape the past or responsibility for one’s actions.

Meursault’s story opens with a description of his mother’s death and her funeral.  These events are the alpha and omega of his story.  The facts he relates include that his mother died in a nursing home to which she had been sent by Meursault over her strenuous objections, and that he wandered about at her funeral without showing any interest or emotion.  The overwhelming importance of these facts to Meursault stems from his contention that the way he treated his mother and behaved at her funeral were the main reason he was convicted of first degree capital murder.

Meursault repeatedly complains that his murder trial seemed to be more about disparaging his character over the way he treated his mother and her death than about ferreting out the facts of the shooting.[16]  The prosecutor repeatedly railed against Meursault, insisting he was “morally guilty of his mother’s death,” and was “an inhuman monster wholly without a moral sense.”  The court was seemingly more concerned with Meursault’s mother’s death than with the Arab’s, and Meursault was apparently convicted of the premeditated murder of the Arab because he was found to have behaved badly toward his mother.[17]

Camus once facetiously said that the moral of The Stranger was that “In our society any man who does not weep at his mother’s funeral runs the risk of being sentenced to death.”[18]  And Camus’ narrator, Meursault, tries to use the absurdity of his trial to portray himself as the victim in his case.  Camus was not, however, justifying Meursault’s actions or criticizing Meursault’s conviction for murder.  Camus was criticizing a society that seemed more concerned with enforcing social conventions than with enforcing laws against murder, especially when the victims were Arabs.  And he was asking us to identify with Meursault, despite our objections to Meursault’s behavior.

Opinions of Meursault’s state of mind as a narrator, and as a character in his own story, have been varied over the years.  To some reviewers, he is the soul of objectivity[19], sensitivity,[20] and honesty.[21]  To others, he is “a clinical psychopath,”[22] who “cares about practically nothing.”[23]  But one thing these reviewers have had in common is that they treat Meursault as a reliable narrator and take his version of events on face value.  This is not plausible and does not seem to have been intended by Camus for at least two reasons.

First, Meursault is still in the process of appealing his death sentence as he is narrating his story.  He has a life-and-death interest in making himself look as sympathetic as possible.  We have to see his story as potentially self-serving, and as not necessarily reflecting events as they actually happened.  Camus portrays Meursault as an ingenious fellow, and Meursault tells what seems to be a tale designed to gain our sympathy and minimize our antipathy.  For example, he leaves out any account of what happened in the immediate aftermath of the shooting.[24]  The artfulness of his narrative is emphasized in The Meursault Investigation by Harun, who insists that Meursault’s story is a fiction designed to justify himself to posterity.[25]

Meursault comes across as a distressed person.  He repeatedly describes himself to the people around him, and portrays himself to us readers, as a person without deep emotions.  Most commentators take it for granted that Meursault was, in fact, that kind of person.  But we cannot take Meursault’s portrayal of himself as being the way he always was.  He may have been rendered emotionally numb by his recent experiences and his narrative may reflect that effect, or he may be dissembling for sympathy.

Second, Meursault had just been sentenced to death when he begins telling his story.  This is a key to his psychological state and his character development as he goes on.  His deadened picture of himself could be a result of shock.  He is seemingly in a state of shock as he begins the story, and his anxiety level increases toward the end as his execution date approaches.  As a result of his emotional wavering, Meursault’s story does not come out as well as he would have liked it.  He does not make his best case for himself, either for his appeal or for posterity.  This is seemingly part of the story that Camus is telling us, through Meursault, about humans facing death.

Most reviewers treat Meursault’s narrative as being of a piece and his narrative tone as being uniform throughout.  This does not do justice to the psychological subtlety and complexity of Camus’ book.  The Stranger was Camus’ first published novel.  In his other works of fiction, the characters tend to be one-dimensional representatives of philosophical or social positions rather than complex persons. That is not the case with Meursault.   He is a complex character who morphs in the course of his tale.

Meursault’s narrative, in fact, seems to unroll in stages, almost like what have been described as the five stages of grief.[26]  He has just been told he is going to die, and his story seems to proceed from denial, which is ostensibly the first stage of grief, then to the next stages of anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance.  This is not to say that the book can be explained by some psychological formula, but that analyzing it in those terms can help illustrate the changes in Meursault’s narrative tone as he tells his story.

In the first stage of his story, Meursault essentially portrays himself as a victim of circumstances.  His mantra in this phase is “it’s not my fault.”[27]  He repeats this sentiment throughout the scenes of his mother’s funeral, which go on for many pages.  In a foreshadowing of his complaint about his trial, he complains that people at the funeral kept looking at him askance because he did not exhibit any emotion.  “I had an absurd impression,” he says, “that they had come to sit in judgment of me.”[28]  Meursault’s affect at this point is that of a pathetic person in a state of denial.

In the second part of his story and the second stage of grief, Meursault portrays himself as just an ordinary fellow who goes along to get along, and who follows the path of least resistance as he claims most people do.  He describes his relationships with his neighbors, his friend Raymond, and his girlfriend Marie in this segment.  Raymond is a pimp who beats up his Arab girlfriend, and who repeatedly says that he wants to be “pals” with Meursault.  Meursault claims that he does not know what that means.  But he hangs around with Raymond and helps him in his schemes, which eventually leads to Meursault shooting the Arab.  Meursault also repeatedly tells his girlfriend, Marie, that he does not love her, that the word love “had no meaning” for him.  But he also tells her that if she wants to marry him, “I didn’t mind.”[29]  The affect in this part of the story is defensive, as of a person who is upset at being picked on and just doesn’t want to be bothered.

It is at the close of this segment that Meursault commits the murder.  He, Raymond, and Marie are at the beach when they came upon “the Arab” and another Algerian Arab.  Meursault believed that the Arab was the brother of the girlfriend who Raymond had assaulted, and that the Arab had a knife and might be out for revenge.  Meursault was holding Raymond’s gun.  Meursault claims he was overpowered by the heat and confused by the glare of the sun so that, standing there with Raymond’s gun in his hand, “it crossed my mind that one might fire, or not fire – and it would come to absolutely the same thing.”  He had seemingly lost his sense of reality and self-control.  Later, when he shoots the Arab, he describes holding the gun in his hand and then “The trigger gave,” as though the shot just happened and he was not responsible for it.[30]  His attitude toward the murder is completely passive, a “things just happen” tone.  It is as though in describing the event, he is either still in a state of shock or he is trying to avoid responsibility for his action.

In the next stage of the story, Meursault describes the police interrogation and the trial, and the failure of his attempts to work things out with the authorities.  He begins to sound persecuted and even paranoid.  It is not only that the police and the prosecutor keep describing him as “callous” and “inhuman,”[31] but that “there seemed to be a conspiracy to exclude me from the proceedings.”  The lawyers, court officials, reporters, and spectators all seemed to know each other, and fraternized as though they were members of a club that excluded him.  He felt like “a gate crasher.”  He wanted to tell them that “I was just like everybody else, quite an ordinary person,” but they would not listen to him.  He says that he realized then “how all these people loathed me,” and were out to get him.[32]

Following the verdict and sentencing ,Meursault describes going into a state of anxiety and depression.  He is desperate to find a way out of being executed.  He says that to find “a loophole [in the law] obsesses me.”  Although he still has an appeal pending, and repeatedly expresses hope that the appeal will be successful, his tone is increasingly agitated.  He is assured by a visiting priest that “my appeal would succeed,” but he is, nonetheless, admittedly possessed by fear, and he goes into a rage at the priest when the priest suggests that he repent.[33]

Finally, on the last page of the book, Meursault says he has become “emptied of hope” and that “for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the tendre indifference of the universe.”[34]  This statement is generally taken by reviewers to mean that he has come to accept his fate and has realized the absurdity of life.  But, of course, he still has at this point an appeal of his sentence in the works, so it is not clear that he has really given up hope.  In addition, the French word tendre can be translated as “benign” or “tender.”  In using the word tendre to describe the universe, Meursault has essentially contradicted the idea that the universe is indifferent or that he has given up hope.  A benign or tender indifference is not indifferent.  It is sympathetic, caring, and agreeable.  The universe will, he seems still to hope, help him.

In sum, Meursault is a cunning but not entirely consistent apologist for himself.  My purpose in analyzing The Stranger in this way is not to reduce Camus’ complex novel to a series of formulaic stages.  It is merely to demonstrate that the emotional tone of Meursault’s story evolves as he narrates it, and that the narrator is not to be taken as totally reliable.  It is also the case that he is not a spokesperson for Camus nor is he intended as an existential hero.

C.  Meursault and the Myth of Sisyphus: Apathy versus Absurdity.

“To an absurd mind reason is useless and there is nothing beyond reason.”

Albert Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus.[35]

Meursault has been seen by most commentators as a spokesman for Camus, and as an ideal exemplar of the absurd person that Camus promotes in his philosophical work The Myth of Sisyphus. They see The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus, which were both published in 1942, as companion pieces, with Meursault representing Camus’ philosophy of absurdism.  Some of these commentators admire Camus’ philosophy and extend this admiration to Meursault as its exemplar.[36]  Others are appalled by what they see as Meursault’s callous and inhuman behavior, and extend this negative opinion to Camus’ philosophy.  Some have even accused Camus of racism based on Meursault’s attitude toward “the Arab” he has killed.[37]

Conflating Meursault with Camus and The Stranger with The Myth of Sisyphus began with an influential review of The Stranger in the mid-1940’s by Camus’ then friend Jean Paul Sartre.  Sartre, who was already a famous philosopher and novelist, gave the neophyte Camus and The Stranger a strangely ambivalent review.  In the review, Sartre repeatedly insists that The Stranger is a fictional rendering of the philosophy in The Myth of Sisyphus, with the message that life is absurd.  Along the way, he also comments that Camus “seems to pride himself on quoting” philosophers in The Myth of Sisyphus “whom he seems not to have always understood.”   And he says that Camus’ methods of writing can be best compared to those of Charles Maurras, who was a notorious anti-Semite and fascist.  Sartre concludes that The Stranger, as a novel about absurdity, “aims at being magnificently sterile,” and succeeds.  With friends like this… [38]

The problem with all of these opinions, from that of Sartre on down to the present, is that The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus do not function as companion pieces.  They deal with very different issues.  The Myth of Sisyphus opens with the declaration that “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”[39]  The book is, thereafter, a sustained argument that although life is absurd, it is for that very reason worth living.  Life and living with others are all that we have for sure, so we ought to hang onto them.  The Stranger is not a novel about suicide.  It is about murder.  It deals with the reaction of a character to having committed a murder and to his impending execution.  In any case, Meursault is in no way an exemplar of Camus’ philosophy in The Myth of Sisyphus.  To the contrary, he is better seen as a negative foil to Camus’ ideal of the absurd person.

In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus describes and prescribes a philosophy of absurdity.  Absurdity is a “feeling of strangeness in the world” that results from the contradiction between our attempts to find transcendent meaning in the universe and our inevitable failure to do so.  The absurd person recognizes that “I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it.  But I know that I do not know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it.”  As a result, the absurd person tries “to live without appeal” to any higher authority, which includes God, the gods, or any metaphysical concepts, and to live without hope for life after death.[40]  This is not an easy thing to do.

Absurdity, according to Camus, is not a stable or secure position.  We are forced to live in a state of “permanent revolution” against ourselves because what we can rationally establish as truth conflicts with what we feel ought to be the case.  We are perpetually caught up in a contradiction between the inescapable conclusion that we cannot reasonably find any final answers, and our incorrigible feeling that they must exist.  “There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart,” Camus warns, “that hope cannot be eluded forever and that it can beset even those who wanted to be free of it.”  He concludes that “Absurdity, hope and death carry on their dialogue” in the mind of an absurd person, all of which makes for an impossible situation, but it is one the absurd person has to live with.[41]

The absurd person is best exemplified for Camus by the mythological figure of Sisyphus.  Sisyphus is variously portrayed in ancient Greek mythology as a villain and a hero, but all accounts agree that he was the craftiest of mortals, and that he frequently defied and outwitted the gods.  At one point, he even succeeded in enchaining Hades, the god of death, and thereby put a halt to humans dying.  Sisyphus was eventually defeated by Zeus, so that Hades was able to go back to work, and he was sentenced by the gods to eternally push a rock up a hill, only to have it fall back again so that he would have to push it up again.

Camus presents Sisyphus’ situation as a metaphor for the human condition.  We are all engaged in what seems like pointless activity.  But, Camus claims, Sisyphus does not despair.  Having defied the gods and rebelled against death on behalf of humankind, Sisyphus is actually happy in his perpetual toil.  In “his scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life,” Sisyphus epitomizes “the absurd hero.”  He is physically chained but metaphysically free.  And even as Sisyphus knows that the rock will roll back down each time he gets it to the top of the hill, he can feel that maybe this time it won’t.[42]

The Myth of Sisyphus opens with the question of whether suicide is warranted given the opacity of the universe.  Camus’ answer is an emphatic “No.”  An absurd person does not despair of his/her hopeless condition but, instead, revels in “my revolt, my freedom, and my passion” for life.  This is a passion that must includes others.  People, says Camus, have to make their own meaning in life, and that is a social and collective activity.  In an absurd world, he insists, there is one value that is certain and that is the value of “human relations,” “friendship,” and “fraternity.”  The isolated individual is an idiot and the isolated life is without value.  Meaning comes from solidarity.  We live with and for others, so that whatever the universe is, we are all in it and in for it together.[43]

Critics who portray Meursault as some sort of existentialist hero extol what they see as his honesty in admitting his indifference to the deaths of his mother and the Arab.  This, they contend, makes him a forthright nonconformist. [44]  They also admire what they claim is his sensitivity to those around him.  He does not deliberately offend anyone, with the exception of the dead Arab.[45]  And they commend his “emotional detachment” from the awful things he has experienced in his life.  He is in their eyes a genuine Stoic. [46]  In sum, they see his life story as a “tragedy of integrity” and a “tragedy of the ethical,” a man who was vilified at trial and convicted of murder because he failed to proclaim grief for his dead mother or love for his girl friend.[47]  Camus himself apparently once said that Meursault was condemned because “he does not play the game,” “refuses to lie,” and “agrees to die for the truth.”[48]  But none of these things make Meursault either an existentialist or an absurdist, let alone a hero.

Existentialism has been described as the doctrine that existence precedes essence, and that we are what we are not and are not what we are.  That is, it is a philosophy of becoming and change in which people are seen as having continually to go beyond themselves and make choices as to what they become next.  Existentialism insists that we must take responsibility for who we are and what we do.[49]  Given this description, Meursault is clearly not an existentialist because he continuously refuses to take responsibility for his actions, and particularly eschews responsibility for shooting the Arab.  He repeatedly describes his life as something that just came to pass, and describes the shooting as though the gun just went off almost by itself.  He also insists that he has always been the same, has never changed, and has rarely made a deliberate choice.

Meurault is also not an absurdist as Camus describes that doctrine.  Absurdism requires a person to be constantly at war with himself, looking for where and how he is starting to believe in transcendent ideas, and then rejecting them.  The absurd person has to be vigilantly self-reflective, watching what he/she thinks and feels, continually engaging in a vigorous  internal dialogue.  Meursault, to the contrary, is completely and admittedly unreflective.[50]  He is a creature of impulse, which is epitomized by his shooting of the Arab.

Some readers have mistaken Meursault’s complete absorption in the present as a sign of his existentialist and absurdist leanings.  But his self-absorption is merely a sign of selfishness and self-centeredness, which are contrary to the emphases of both existentialism and absurdism on our need to work with others to define and develop ourselves.  Significantly, Meursault is capable of sympathizing with others — he even feels sorry sometimes for his neighbor’s annoying dog — but he is incapable of empathizing with them.  He is emotionally and intellectually isolated, from others and even from himself.

Some readers have also mistaken Meursault’s unconventionality with Camus’ absurdity, but Meursault represents the apathetic person rather than the absurd person.   As he describes his life, what looks like nonconformity is really just indifference.  Deliberate rebellion is foreign to Meursault’s personality, as is passion.  He repeatedly tells his girlfriend that he does not know what love means, and he repeatedly says about choices he has to make, including the choice to shoot the Arab, that it makes no difference what he does.  The passion for life, the feeling of solidarity with others, and the revolt against injustice that characterize Camus’ absurd person are not sentiments that one could plausibly ascribe to Meursault.

Finally, while Camus emphasizes that the absurd person is energized in the face of death, defying its inevitability and gaining from it a passion for life, Meursault is depressed by his impending death and his narrative is a depressing tale told in a depressed voice.  In sum, Meursault is the opposite of the absurd person Camus is describing in The Myth of Sisyphus.

D.  Meursault and Murder: A Rebel without a Cause.

“I rebel – therefore we exist.”

Albert Camus: The Rebel.[51]

Camus’ next philosophical book after The Myth of Sisyphus was The Rebel, which was published in 1951.  It is an essay on “whether or why we have the right to kill.”  Camus says that the book extends to a consideration of murder the “train of thought which began with suicide and the absurd” in The Myth of Sisyphus.[52]  If one must not kill oneself, may one kill others?  Reviewers have generally construed The Rebel in light of the breakup of the political alliance and friendship between Sartre and Camus over the former’s support for revolutionary Communism and the latter’s support for reformist socialism.[53]

Camus argues that revolution, which tries to impose all at once a final regime of justice on society, inevitably leads to oppression and murder.  Only a reformist movement that recognizes limits on what it can do can move toward genuine social justice.  The anti-revolutionary position Camus takes in The Rebel is generally seen as a function of the end of alliances between socialists and Communists that formed during World War II and that broke up with the beginning of the Cold War.

But there is also a continuity in Camus’ thinking that goes back to the composition of The Stranger during World War  IIMost reviewers, having already taken for granted that The Stranger is a companion piece to The Myth of Sisyphus, have not made a connection between The Rebel and The Stranger.  But The Myth of Sisyphus is a book about suicide.  The Rebel and The Stranger are both books about murder.  In this light, The Stranger can be best seen as a fictional prologue to Camus’ philosophical speculations in The Rebel, not as a companion piece to The Myth of Sisyphus.  And in light of the precepts promoted by Camus in The Rebel, Meursault comes across as a negative foil to the ideal rebel.

Camus reiterates in The Rebel many key concepts from The Myth of Sisyphus.  He insists that absurdism means that “human life is the only necessary good” and that, therefore, murder, which like suicide destroys life, is wrong.  Murder splits the soul in two, which is a good description of Meursault in The Stranger, a person living a half-life.  Camus acknowledges that “The absurd is, in itself, contradictory” because it denies value judgments but judges life to be of value, which is a value judgment.  Absurdism is a prescription for contradiction because it requires us to continually rebel against beliefs that we inevitably fall into.  But these contradictions are life-giving, Camus contends, because stagnation is death.  Rebellion, which is a “protest against death” and which was Sisyphus’ crime and his glory, is life.[54]    

Camus also insists in The Rebel, as he did in The Myth of Sisyphus, that humans are social creatures, not isolated individuals, and that “Human solidarity is metaphysical,” not merely conventional.  The person who does not engage in collective activity, either rebelling against  social oppression or in favor of greater social justice, is a stranger to humanity and foreigner in the world.  The stranger is the self-imposed outcaste who does not recognize that “dignity is common to all men,” or acknowledge the ultimate truth that “I rebel – therefore we exist.”[55]  That is, Camus concludes, we only truly exist to the extent we engage in collective rebellion.

Meursault seems to think of himself as a rebel, and many critics have thought likewise, because he does not conform to social conventionalities.  But he is an unrepentant murderer who does not stand for anything or with anybody.  He has no cause to which he is dedicated.  He is merely an isolated individual, who is strange to others and strange to himself.  In Camus’ terms, a person like Meursault is not a rebel and has only a form of half-life.

E.  Brothers in Blood: Meursault and Harun.  Who is the Stranger of the two?

“The absurdity of my condition, which consisted in pushing a corpse to the top of a hill before it rolled back down again, endlessly.”

Harun, the narrator of The Meursault Investigation.[56]

The words L’Etranger, the French title of Camus’ novel, can be translated as the stranger, the outsider or the foreigner.  It is usually translated as The Stranger and most commentators see Meursault as the stranger.  He is a man estranged from himself and society.  But, the Arab he kills is also a stranger and a foreigner to Meursault, just as the Frenchman Meursault is a stranger and foreigner to the Arab.  So, who is the stranger?  Who is the foreigner?

That is a question that Huran, the narrator of Daoud’s novel The Meursault Investigation, repeatedly asks.  Both the French and the Arabs saw themselves as the genuine Algerians.  Each claimed the land was rightfully theirs, and saw the others as foreigners.  They also knew little about each other and were effectively strangers to each other in the same land.  With the independence of Algeria from France, Harun contends, this did not change.  “Independence only pushed people on both sides to switch roles,” with the oppressed becoming the oppressors and the oppressors becoming the oppressed.[57]

Harun tells his tale over the course of several days to an auditor in an Algerian bar.  He claims to be telling the story of his brother, Musa, and, thereby, reclaiming Musa’s dignity and the dignity of Arab Algerians as a whole.  His story is replete with critical comments about the French colonial regime and the current Algerian government and society.  He is himself an outsider or stranger to contemporary Algerian society.  Harun is particularly critical of the conservative Islam that has increasingly been dominating Algerian culture.  It is these latter comments that have sparked the enmity of conservative Muslims toward Daoud, as though Harun is speaking for Daoud.  Although Harun makes comments about society and religion with which apparently Daoud agrees, Harun is too unreliable and erratic a narrator to be considered Daoud’s spokesman.  He tends to discredit himself.

Harun’s narrative is more of a rant than a story, and the facts come out in dribs and drabs with lots of inconsistencies.  Ostensibly correcting Meursault’s narrative with the story of his brother, Harun’s narrative is actually a winding, whining, long-winded complaint about his own life.  His father abandoned the family when Harun was a small child.  Harun’s mother then favored Musa and neglected Harun.  When Musa was killed, Harun’s mother was inconsolable and, according to Harun, thereafter made him feel like she wished he had died rather than Musa.  Harun idolized his brother, but also feared him.  Musa seems to have been a bit of a brute who mistreated Harun.  Harun actually knows very little about Musa’s life except what his mother told him, and she was an unreliable narrator who constantly changed her stories and magnified Musa’s achievements.  She also was obsessed with getting revenge for Musa’s murder, and put the burden on Harun to achieve that.  In sum, he portrays his mother as a monster who has pushed him around all his life.

When the revolution of Arab Algerians against the French began, Harun did not join the rebels, and was subsequently scorned by his neighbors for being an outsider to their liberation struggle.  In the immediate aftermath of the revolution, at his mother’s instigation, Harun shoots and kills a Frenchman who was seeking sanctuary in their shed.  This man was a member of a neighboring family that had previously gotten Harun a place in a French school at which Harun gained the education that enabled him to get a good government job.

It is not clear exactly what was the relationship between the dead man and Huran’s mother, but the man may even have had some sort of sexual relationship with Harun’s mother.[58]  Harun was arrested by the new Algerian government for shooting the man, but was released and, as he puts it, was condemned to live rather than condemned to die as Meursault had been.  Harun seems incapable of having close relationships with anyone.  He is a very old man but in his long life he has had one girlfriend for one summer, and then she left him.

Although some reviewers have rushed to crown Harun as “an existential hero”[59] or the ideal of an honest man,[60] and others have proclaimed him a liberal social reformer,[61] Harun does not present himself as a social reformer.  Although he continually complains about the way Algeria was under the French and the way it is now, he has never done anything to change things.  One reviewer has aptly called him “a barroom kvetcher.”[62]  Like Meursault, he has been wandering through life without purpose, seemingly looking after only himself.  He is no hero and he is not Daoud.

Harun parades his alienation from society.  He is an atheist and an alcoholic in a deeply religious and abstemious society.  “I detest religions and submission,” he declaims.[63]  He is a stranger in an estranged land.  But he is no existentialist.  Like Meursault, Harun refuses to take responsibility for his actions, blaming everything on his mother, the French, his Arab neighbors, and circumstances out of his control.  With respect to the murder, he says “I blame my mother, I lay the blame on her.  The truth is, she committed that crime.”[64]

The underlying theme of the book is Harun’s feelings of guilt, which he seemingly tries to pass on to his auditor in the book and to readers of the book.  Like The Stranger, The Meursault Investigation is divided into two parts.  The Stranger is formally divided into two parts, punctuated by the murder of the Arab.  The Meursault Investigation is informally divided into two parts, with Harun’s admission that he murdered the Frenchman as the dividing point.  In the first part, Harun focuses on the murder of Musa and on his own survivor’s guilt.  In the second part, he focuses on his murder of the Frenchman and his efforts to deal with his feelings of guilt about that.

Harun’s diatribe has the superficial appearance of spontaneity, but seems really to be orchestrated.  He releases information in drips and in ways that seem calculated for maximum shock to the auditor, but also for maximum sympathy.  His is a strategy of ostensibly admitting the worst about himself as a way of pretending he is being honest, but he is really being manipulative.   When, for example, Harun finally admits his murder of the Frenchman, he at first claims that he did not know the man.  Eventually, however, he admits that he did know the man and, in fact, knew him well.  Harun first gets his audience used to the fact that he killed someone, and then gradually lets us know how awful his act really was.

Harun is an admittedly unreliable narrator.  At the close of the book, he even hints that he may be “just a compulsive liar.”[65]  In discussing The Stranger, for example, he talks at one point about “when the murderer leaves prison,” as though Meursault got the reprieve he had been seeking and was not executed.  But later in talking about Meursault, Harun refers to “after his execution,” as though Meursault had been executed.[66]  Harun also claims that this is the first time he has ever told his story, but he seems to be such a compulsive talker that this is hard to believe.

Harun’s story is laced with references to The Stranger, The Myth of Sisyphus and, significantly, The Rebel, and the word “absurd” abounds throughout.  I think the main point of Harun’s story is proclaimed midway through the book when he paraphrases the theme of The Rebel, saying that “whether or not to commit murder is the only proper question for a philosopher.”[67]  That is, when faced with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, do we have the right to murder our way out of our troubles?  And I think that Harun’s answer is “No, because you can never live it down.”

Harun illustrates this in a paraphrase of an image from The Myth of Sisyphus, when he compares his situation to “pushing a corpse to the top of a hill before it rolled back down, endlessly.”[68]  Instead of the rock that Sisyphus had to push around, Harun has to deal with guilt for two corpses, those of his brother and the Frenchman.  He seems to need to tell his story as a way of relieving himself of his guilt feelings, and thereby getting the corpses to the top of the hill.  But the guilt feelings will inevitably return again, the corpses rolling back down upon him, so that he probably has been compulsively telling his story over and over again all his adult life.  The story ends with an almost complete identification of the murderer Harun with the murderer Meusault, and the last pages of the book consist of Harun telling about how he started yelling at an Imam just as Meursault did to a priest. Harun repeats virtually the same words that Meursault said at the end of his story.[69]

The theme of The Meursault Investigation was aptly stated by one reviewer as the importance of “individual responsibility,” which is something Harun does not display, nor did Meursault.[70]   In Meursault and Harun, we have characters pushed to the extreme of facing death as isolated individuals, Meursault through execution and Harun through old age.    They make some cogent social criticisms, because self-centered people are often acutely sensitive to slights and slight social injustices to themselves.  But they are also both selfish and at best amoral.  They are not held up by their creators as model citizens.  The moral of both books seems to be the need for human solidarity as a basis for individual responsibility.  Camus once commented that the trajectory of his work from The Stranger on was toward calling more insistently for human solidarity.  Daoud seems to be furthering that trajectory.

[1] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. p.73.

[2] As though any sane person during the 1780’s would want to keep a musket (the standard  gun at that time) in his/her house along with a bag of volatile gunpowder (needed for loading a musket) which could explode with the slightest change in humidity.  The reason the British were marching on Lexington and Concord during April, 1775, and fought the battles that are seen as the start of the American Revolution, was to confiscate the muskets and gunpowder Americans had stored in their militia armories that were located a safe distance from their homes.

[3] Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015.

[4]  Scherr, Arthur. “Camus’ The Stranger.” Baltimore Polytechnic Institute.bpi.edu  9/5/08.  Gnanasekarau, R. “Psychological Interpretation of the novel ‘The Stranger’ by Camus.” International Journal of English Literature and Culture, Vol.2(6). 6/6/14.  Charomonte, Nicola. “Albert Camus Thought That Life Is Meaningless.” The New Republic. newrepublic.com  11/7/14. John. “Algerian Writer Kamel Daoud Stands Camus’ ‘The Stranger’ on Its Head.” NPR Book Reviews. NPR.org. 6/23/15.

[5]  “The Stranger (novel). Wikipedia. 1/23/16.

[6]  “The Stranger.” Sparknotes.com. 1/23/16.

[7]   “The Stranger.” Amazon.com Review. 1/23/16.

[8]  Adler, Mortimer. How to Read a Book.

[9]  Although Camus worked with Sartre and other existentialists, he repeatedly rejected applying the label existentialist to himself.  Camus rejected what he saw as the radical skepticism bordering on nihilism of some existentialists.  But I think that some of the concepts developed by his one-time mentor and colleague Sartre can be legitimately used in analyzing The Stranger.

[10]  Sartre, Jean Paul. “Existentialism is a Humanism.”  Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2007. pp.25, 47.

[11]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.1, 151.

[12]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. pp.137, 143.

[13]  Messud, Claire. “The Brother of ‘The Stranger.'” New York Review of Books. 10/22/15.

[14]  Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. p.

[15]  Sartre, Jean Paul. “A Commentary on The Stranger.” Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2007. p.94.

[16]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. p.123.

[17]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.121, 128.

[18]  Quoted in Gnanasekarau, R. “Psychological Interpretation of the novel ‘The Stranger’ by Camus.” International Journal of English Literature and Culture, Vol.2(6). June 6, 2014.

[19]  Gwyn, Aaron. “Albert Camus’ Poker-faced ‘Stranger’ Became a Much Needed Friend.” NPR Books, WBEZ.  August 10,2014.  Charomonte, Nicola. “Albert Camus Thought That Life Is Meaningless.” The New Republic. newrepublic.com  November 7, 2014.

[20]  Scherr, Arthur. “Camus’ The Stranger.” Baltimore Polytechnic Institute.bpi.edu  9/5/08.

[21]  Hudon, Louis. “The Stranger and the Critics.” Yale French Studies #25. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960. pp.62-63.  Gnanasekarau, R. “Psychological Interpretation of the novel ‘The Stranger’ by Camus.”  International Journal of English Literature and Culture, Vol.2(6). June 6, 2014.

[22]  Podhoretz, Norman. “Camus and his critics.”  The New Criterion. November, 1982. at newcriterion.com

[23]  Poore, Charles. “The Stranger.” Books of the Times. The New York Times, April 11, 1946.

[24]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.76, 89.

[25]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. pp.2, 7-8, 53.

[26] [26]  See grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief

[27]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. p.1.

[28]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. p.11.

[29]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.44, 52.

[30]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.72, 75, 76.

[31]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.79, 109-112, 120, 125, 128.

[32]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.104-105, 112, 124, 130.

[33]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. pp.136, 141, 143, 146, 148.

[34]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. p.154.

[35] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. p.27.

[36] Hudon, Louis. “The Stranger and the Critics.” Yale French Studies #25. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960. p.60.  Gnanasekarau, R. “Psychological Interpretation of the novel ‘The Stranger’ by Camus.” International Journal of English Literature and Culture, Vol.2(6). June 6, 2014.

[37] Podhoretz, Norman. “Camus and his critics.”  The New Criterion. November, 1982. at newcriterion.com  Ulin, David. “Review ‘The Meursault Investigation’ re-imagines Camus’ ‘The Stranger.'” Los Angeles Times. 5/28/15.

[38]  Sartre, Jean Paul.  “A Commentary on The Stranger.” Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven, CN: Yale University Press, 2007. pp.76, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85.

[39] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. p.3.

[40] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. pp.11, 38, 39.

[41] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. pp.8, 22, 40, 76, 83.

[42] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. pp.89, 90.

[43] Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. pp.41, 47, 66.

[44] Gnanasekarau, R. “Psychological Interpretation of the novel ‘The Stranger’ by Camus.” International Journal of English Literature and Culture, Vol.2(6). June 6, 2014.

[45] Scherr, Arthur. “Camus’ The Stranger.” Baltimore Polytechnic Institute.bpi.edu  9/5/08.

[46] Gwyn, Aaron. “Albert Camus’ Poker-faced ‘Stranger’ Became a Much Needed Friend.” NPR Books, WBEZ.  August 10,2014.

[47] Charomonte, Nicola. “Albert Camus Thought That Life Is Meaningless.” The New Republic. newrepublic.com  November 7, 2014.

[48] Quoted in Gnanasekarau, R. “Psychological Interpretation of the novel ‘The Stranger’ by Camus.” International Journal of English Literature and Culture, Vol.2(6). June 6, 2014.

[49]  Sartre, Jean Paul. Existentialism is a Humanism. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007.

[50]  Camus, Albert. The Stranger. New York: Vintage Books, 1946. p.127.

[51] Camus, Albert. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956, p.22

[52] Camus, Albert. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. pp.4-5.

[53]  “Albert Camus.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. plato.stanford.edu  “The Rebel: Essay by Camus.” britannica.com.  “Camus: Portrait of a Rebel.” Socialist Standard. worldsocialism.org

[54]  Camus, Albert. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. pp.6, 8, 10, 281, 285.

[55]  Camus, Albert. The Rebel. New York: Vintage Books, 1956. pp.17, 22, 280, 297.

[56]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. p.47.

[57]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. pp.11, 34, 60.

[58]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. pp.119,122.

[59]  Yassin-Kassab, Robin. “The Meursault Investigation by Kamel Daoud review – an instant classic.” the guardian. 6/24/15.

[60]  Messud, Claire. “The Brother of the ‘Stranger.'” New York Review of Books. 10/22/15.

[61]  Moaveni, Azadeh. “‘The Meursault Investigation’ by Kamel Daoud.” Financial Times. 6/10/15. Battersby, Ellen. “The Meursault Investigation by Kamel Daoud review: L’Estranger danger.” Irish Times. 6/27/15.

[62]  “The Meursault Investigation.” Kirkus Review.

[63]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. p.66.

[64]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. pp.77, 84, 88, 89.

[65]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. p.143.

[66]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. pp.53, 55.

[67]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. p.89.

[68]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. p.47.

[69]  Daoud, Kamel. The Meursault Investigation. New York: Other Press, 2015. p.140-142.

[70]  Powers, John. “Algerian Writer Kamel Daoud Stands Camus’ ‘The Stranger’ on Its Head.” NPR Book Reviews. NPR.org  6/23/15.

Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot”: Why do we keep waiting? Hope among the Hopeless.

  Beckett’s Waiting for Godot: Why do we keep waiting? Hope among the Hopeless.                       

                                       Burton Weltman

A country road.  A tree.  Evening.

Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot.

He pulls at it with both hands, panting.

He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again.

Setting and action at the beginning of Act I of Waiting for Godot.

A guy trying to take off his boots, and failing.  That is how Waiting for Godot opens, and it is a prime example of the sort of action that takes place during the play.  There is, in fact, very little dramatic action at the beginning of the play, and none at the end.  In between, two ragged men, Estragon and Vladimir (Gogo and Didi for short), wander back and forth on a bleak stage and talk at each other as they wait for the arrival of someone named Godot, whom they may never have met (it isn’t clear) and know almost nothing about.  They are briefly interrupted by four other characters, a poltroon named Pozzo with his slave Lucky, and two messenger boys sent by Godot.  That’s it.

Godot was completed in 1949 by Samuel Beckett in the wake of the Great Depression and World War II.  It was a time when many Europeans were suffering from what we might today call post traumatic stress disorder.  They were still trying to figure out what had hit them and what they could do about it.  Godot was part of a flood of existentialist works produced during the 1940’s and 1950’s by Beckett, Jean Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Simone de Beauvoir and other writers.  Sartre and Camus, the leading figures in the existentialist group, emphasized the helplessness, hopelessness, and pointlessness of human existence.  Godot has been compared with their works.  The setting of Godot is bleak, the main characters wander about to no obvious purpose, and the play has no obvious plot.  I intend to show, however, that Beckett makes a very different point than Sartre and Camus.

Godot has also been compared in recent years with the television comedy show Seinfeld.  Seinfeld has been famously characterized and satirized by its own characters as a show about nothing.  And although Seinfeld is amusing, it really is pretty much about nothing.  Godot has been similarly characterized as being about nothing because the play seems so unfocussed and nothing dramatic happens.  But this comparison is weak.  Godot is amusing, but there is also something to the play that has led critics to describe it as “mesmerizing,” and induced many to rate it as a great work of art.  One may ridicule Godot, it has been said, but one “cannot ignore it.”[1]  Very few people would say that about Seinfeld.  What is it about Godot that accounts for its hold on audiences?  I hope in this essay to show what that is.

A great work of art has been described as one that can be experienced repeatedly with something new gained each time.  A great book is, for example, one that can be read over and over, with the reader getting more and different things each time.  A great play is one that can be seen many times with new insights each time.  The more a work can be profitably reread or re-watched, the more there is to it and the greater it is.[2]

That is something we can do with the plays of William Shakespeare and the novels of Charles Dickens, and that is why people today frequently read and reread, watch and re-watch works by these authors.  It is not something that most people can do with the plays of Shakespeare’s contemporary and friend Christopher Marlowe or with the books of Dickens’ contemporary and friend Edward Bulwer-Lytton.   Marlow and Bulwer-Lytton were considered innovative and widely popular authors in their day.  But they have not stood well the test of time, and their works are not often performed or read.[3]  Bulwer-Lytton has even had the singular misfortune to have named after him an annual contest for the worst opening sentence for a novel, having opened one of his novels with the oft ridiculed line “It was a dark and stormy night.”[4]

Great literary works like those of Shakespeare and Dickens appeal to us to consider them carefully.  They connect with us in a way that says that there is more to them than meets the eye at our first glance, and that we are missing something important if we don’t try to find it.  Great works are also multidimensional, not merely one-dimensional, sentimental appeals to our emotions or didactic appeals to our intellect.  They appeal to us and challenge us in a variety of ways, intellectually, experientially, imaginatively, and emotionally.

A literary work is said, for example, to have intellectual appeal if it challenges our ideas about things.  It has experiential appeal if it relates to things with which we are familiar but focuses on things we have ignored.  A work has imaginative appeal if it is couched in imagery that opens our eyes to something we are capable of seeing but have not seen before.  It has  emotional appeal if it evokes empathy and emotionally involves us in unexpected ways.  A great work makes the strange familiar and the familiar strange.[5]  Godot does just that.  As I hope to demonstrate in this essay, the play appeals to our intellects, personal experiences, imaginations and emotions, and provokes us to think and feel about things in new ways.  It can also be seen over and over without exhausting its appeal.  In sum, it is well worth waiting for Godot.

Estragon: Nothing to be done.

Vladimir: I am beginning to come around to that opinion.  All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven’t tried everything.  And I resumed the struggle.

Opening lines of Act I of Waiting for Godot.

“What is to be done?” asked Vladimir Lenin in the title of his famous book of 1901.  The book was written at a low point in working class struggles in Europe, at a time when apathetic workers seemed to be adapting to their oppression under the capitalist system.  Lenin’s answer was to build a revolutionary movement led by a vanguard cadre of radicals who would energize workers and show them the way.  Estragon parodies and critiques Lenin with his “Nothing to be done” as the opening salvo of the debate between him and his comrade Vladimir, which largely constitutes Godot.  Vladimir responds in Leninist fashion that whenever he feels at a low point, he thinks of all the things he has not yet tried, and then he resumes the struggle.

But there are limits to Vladimir’s stamina.  He is beginning to despair.  His despair recalls that of his namesake Lenin, wasting away in exile in Switzerland during January, 1917.  Lenin told a group of visiting comrades that they must reconcile themselves to the fact that there would probably be no revolution in Russia during their lifetimes.  But, he adjured, they must keep the faith and wait things out.  Quite unexpectedly, revolution broke out the next month in Russia and Lenin returned to lead it.  One never knows what can be done if one has not tried everything.

What is to be done, Estragon and Vladimir are continually asking?  How should they spend their time while they wait for God knows what?   So, they play with words and play verbal games, just as Beckett wrote plays and played with words.  They goad each other with what are seemingly intentional misunderstandings of the other, a way of making something of a conversation out of nothing.  “Let’s contradict each other,” Estragon suggests and later insists “Let’s ask each other questions.”  After one such episode, Estragon rejoices that “We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist.”  “Yes, yes, we’re magicians,” Vladimir responds.

They sprinkle their conversation with allusions to books, events and ideas that they have difficulty recalling and construing, just as Beckett sprinkles Godot with allusions to things for us, the audience, to try to decipher and ponder.  Vladimir, for example, referring to the story that one of the two thieves who were to be crucified with Jesus was spared, notes that only one of the four Gospels mentions the story.  Estragon’s reply is “Well?  They don’t agree and that’s all there is to it.”  Vladimir’s response is “But all four were there and only one speaks of a thief being saved.  Why believe him rather than the other four?”  This is not only a question about the New Testament, it is a question about evidence and testimony of all sorts, and about ethical choices.

“It is a game, everything is a game,” Beckett once supposedly said about Godot.[6]  There is an almost endless number of things in the play for Estragon and Vladimir to think about, and us too.  The play has enormous intellectual appeal and appeal for intellectuals.  Philosophy, religion, politics, and ethics are just a few of the themes with which it deals, and which the characters discuss.  It is not clear that Estragon and Vladimir make any progress in their speculations, but they greet each day and each other with an embrace and a celebration.

Vladimir: It’s a scandal!

Pozzo: Are you alluding to anything in particular?                                                            

Vladimir: To treat a man…like that…I think that…no…a human being…no…it’s a         scandal.

Estragon: A disgrace.

Vladimir and Estragon reacting to Pozzo’s treatment of his slave Lucky in Act I.

“When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?,” asked the Lollard priest John Ball, one of the leaders of the English Peasant Revolt of 1381.  In fighting against the oppression of the peasants by their overlords, Ball exhorted his followers to return to the simplicity and social equality of the Garden of Eden, where there was no private property or social hierarchy.  Ball’s appeal tapped into a traditional Christian utopian dream of the sort that in modern times was voiced by John Lennon in his song Imagine.  “Imagine there’s no heaven…Imagine there’s no countries…Imagine there’s no possession,” John Lennon asks us.  And then, he says, imagine the wonderful consequences, with everyone living in peace, sharing the world, and living for today.

Lennon’s words are a surprisingly plausible way of describing the situation of Estragon and Vladimir in Godot.  They own virtually no property, and share what they have.  They do not demonstrate any tribal loyalties or prejudices.  They bicker a lot, but they do not actually fight.  They sometimes envy the seemingly wealthy Pozzo and hope for riches for themselves, but they don’t do anything about it.  They live totally for the day.  So, is Godot intended as a description of utopia?  Or a portrait of dystopia?  Is it a parody of the Garden of Eden?

Godot been called “a mystery wrapped in an enigma.” [7]  It has also been declared so ambiguous as to be “Whatever you want it to be,” let your mind make of it what you will.[8]  Although I think that is an overstatement, the play does make a strong appeal to the imagination.  A big part of this appeal stems from its minimalism.  Godot has a minimalist script calling for a minimalist setting and a minimalist performance.  It strips life down to a bare minimum of things, and focuses on the moment-to-moment and day-to-day survival of its two main characters.  This minimalism makes for a maximum of interpretations.  Godot has been produced as a comedy, tragedy, tragic-comedy, farce, and melodrama.  It has been interpreted as a psychological, political, sociological, metaphysical, and/or religious drama.

The setting is stark, and the play has been described as “about nowhere and therefore about everywhere.”[9]  The stage set consists essentially of a dying tree and a rock.  If it is Eden, it is a devastated garden.  Beckett sets his characters in a barren physical and psychological environment in which they are starving for stimulation.  They seem to suffer from sensory and intellectual deprivation and, as a result, they often imagine things.  Upon first meeting Pozzo, for example, they mistake him for Godot.  Estragon explains: “That is to say…you understand…the dusk…the strain…waiting…I confess…I imagined…for a second.”  We, the audience, too thought that our waiting might be over, that Godot had arrived.  But no, we must wait further.

The imagery is haunting.  It is a post-apocalyptic setting that is befitting a Europe devastated by economic depression and war.  But the setting also befits a post-Holocaust and post-Hiroshima world that has been stripped of its moral veneer.  It is a world that needs an imaginative revival.   Beckett provides a structure for our imaginations, and forces us to think about the possibilities.

Estragon: Well, shall we go?

Vladimir:  Yes, let’s go.

They do not move.

End of Act I of Waiting for Godot.

 “To be or not to be, that is the question,” Hamlet proclaims, as he contemplates suicide and ponders what he should be and how to be it.  Hamlet’s answer is essentially a cop-out.  He claims that killing oneself may not end one’s problems because there may be an afterlife in which one’s tribulations may continue and even increase.  But Hamlet then goes on to pontificate in terms that seem to negate taking action of any sort, and do not apply merely to committing suicide:

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.

This is an elaborate excuse for inaction.  Hamlet is a play about someone who does not want to choose, and does not want to act.  Godot is a play about people who are making choices and taking action.  This is the case even when the result looks like indecision and inaction.

In a seeming parody and rebuke of Hamlet, Vladimir claims that “What are we doing here? That is the question (emphasis in original).”  Suicide is not the question.  Action versus inaction is not the question.  The question is what should we do and why should we do it, since we are always doing something whether we like it or not.  This is the core question of the play and one that almost all of us ask ourselves at least sometimes, some of us a lot.  With this question, the play appeals to the personal experience of the audience, all of us wanderers in a time and place not of our choosing, searching for some meaning and for something meaningful to do with our lives.

Vladimir’s question is also arguably a response to Albert Camus’ influential book The Myth of Sisyphus.  Sisyphus was written in 1942, while France was under Nazi occupation and Camus was involved in the seemingly hopeless struggle of the French underground against the Nazi occupiers.  The opening words of Sisyphus are “There is but one truly philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”  As with Hamlet, suicide is the question.  For Camus, living without hope is the answer.[10]

Sisyphus was a character from Greek mythology who was condemned for eternity to push a rock up a mountain, only to have it roll back down, so that he would have to push it back up again.  Camus claims that Sisyphus embraces this “futile and hopeless labor” because “There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn,” and Sisyphus’ scorn for the gods sets him free.  “Sisyphus,” Camus claims, “teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks.”  He concludes that “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”[11]  Heroic endurance, an acceptance of hopelessness, and happiness through scorn for one’s oppressors is Camus’ answer to the question of suicide.

Although Beckett’s main characters in Godot repeatedly consider killing themselves, boredom seems to be the main philosophic question for them, not suicide.  In contrast with Sisyphus, Godot was written at a time when economic depression and war were giving way to economic and political recovery, and the conformity of mass society had become a main worry among intellectuals.  Cultural critics such as Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer were warning about the coming loss of individuality in what was becoming a homogenized Western society.[12]

Adorno and Horkheimer were the advanced guard of a legion of critics concerned that an age of coerced uniformity by fascist dictators was being succeeded by an era of voluntary conformity, and by the boredom that comes from a paucity of imagination, genuine choices and meaning in people’s lives.  Beckett was writing at the dawn of the age of David Reisman’s The Lonely Crowd[13] succeeded by Vance Packard’s The Organization Man,[14] which eventually became Herbert Marcuse’s One Dimensional Man.[15]  Self-suppression and willful conformity were their main concerns.  Western culture, they complained, was becoming a domain of intellectual, experiential, imaginative, and emotional vacuity.

Physical suicide was not the problem for these intellectuals.  Psychological suicide was.  Both Act I and Act II of Godot end with Estragon and Vladimir saying they will kill themselves tomorrow.  But we know they won’t.  They are merely bored, and are entertaining themselves with speculations about committing suicide.  It is just one of the many things they think of doing, but don’t do.  Estragon and Vladimir are continually thinking about how to be, even when they are speculating about how not to be.  They seem to be Beckett’s response to the complaints of mass society theorists.  Beckett’s everymen are as shabby as they can be, but they are anything but conformists.  There is no “Keeping up with the Joneses” with them.  Beckett seems to be saying that a tawdry tedium should not be confused with a vacuous conformity.        

In a contrast with Hamlet, who does not really answer his own question about being, Vladimir answers his.  He says “And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear.  We are waiting for Godot to come.”  Unlike Hamlet, Estragon and Vladimir are not dithering around in a quandary about whether or not to do something.  They are doing something, according to Vladimir, even if, like Lenin biding his time in Switzerland, it is only keeping the faith and keeping themselves together while they wait for things to unfold.

“We are not saints,” Vladimir concludes, “but we have kept our appointment” with Godot, and that is something to be proud of.  It is also something with which we in the audience can empathize.  “Eighty percent of success is showing up,” Woody Allen once said.  “I can’t go on,” Estragon complains at one point.  “That’s what you think,” Vladimir responds, and they go on.  Vladimir and Estragon show up every day to wait for Godot.  Most of us would do well to do the same in our own lives.

Estragon: Well, shall we go?                                                                                                        

Vladimir:  Yes, let’s go.

They do not move.

End of Act II of Waiting for Godot.

 “It’s all symbiosis,” Beckett is supposed to have once said about Godot.[16]  Beckett was extremely reluctant to comment on the meaning of his plays, but he seems hereby to have acknowledged that Godot is above all a play about human relationships.  Strip life down to its bare bones and what you have left is relationships.  Godot is frequently paired with Jean Paul Sartre’s No Exit as a play about people who are trapped physically and psychologically, and who cannot get out of the vicious cycles in which their lives, or their afterlives in the case of No Exit, unhappily revolve.  No Exit portrays what Sartre saw as the contradiction between being metaphysically free but psychologically imprisoned, which is a frequent theme in existentialist writing.

Similar to Camus’ writing of Sisyphus, Sartre wrote No Exit in Paris during 1944,while France was still under Nazi occupation.  It is a story about three dead people, a man and two women, who are locked in a room. The room is ostensibly Hell.  In the beginning, they marvel at the idea that where they are is Hell, and they anticipate that they will be okay if being in a locked room is the worst they will suffer for their misdeeds in life.  But then their personalities start to come into play.

The man is chronically depressed and despondent.  One of the women increasingly lusts after him.  The other woman increasingly lusts after the first woman and scorns the man.  He, in turn, seeks the scornful woman’s approval.  The net result is a vicious circle in which each of them preys on the others.  Toward the end of the play, the door to the room opens so that they apparently could exit the room.  None of them, however, chooses to leave.  They seemingly want or need to be tortured.  Psychologically, there is no way out for them.

The man sums up what the play says about the human condition with the phrase: “L’enfer, ces les autres” or “Hell is other people.”  He also voices the moral of the story in the last words of the play: “Eh bien, continuons,” that is, “Let’s continue” or “Let’s get on with it.”  Written in circumstances similar to those in which Camus wrote Sisyphus, Sartre’s moral in No Exit is similar to Camus’ in Sisyphus.  We must resign ourselves to a living hell.  The moral of Godot is different.

There are three sets of symbiotic relationships in Godot: Estragon and Vladimir, Pozzo and Lucky, and the two messenger boys and Godot.  As Pozzo appears in the first act of the play, he is a pompous braggart and a wealthy bully.  He drags his slave Lucky around with a rope and routinely denigrates him.  Although Pozzo looks down upon Estragon and Vladimir for their poverty and for hanging about waiting for Godot, he goes hither and yon without seeming to get anywhere.  In the second act, Pozzo shows up having been accidentally blinded.  Now the slave is pulling him around by the rope.  Pozzo has gone from bumptious to pathetic, but Lucky remains his slave and neither knows how to get away from the other.  Theirs is a symbiotic master-slave relationship that has enslaved and degraded them both, but with no way out.

The two boys have an ambiguous relationship with Godot.  One is a shepherd, the other a goatherd.  Godot apparently mistreats and beats one of them, but it is not clear which.  This is like the Cain and Able story in the Bible in which God favors the shepherd Able over the farmer Cain for no apparent reason.  From passages such as this, many interpreters of the play claim that “It seem fairly certain that Godot stands for God.”[17]  In this view, waiting for Godot would seem like an act of religious faith.  This view is reinforced by Vladimir’s response to Estragon’s question about Godot.  “And if he comes?” asks Estragon.  “We’ll be saved,” answers Vladimir, with salvation generally regarded as a religious goal.  But Godot and salvation could stand for any number of things for which people hope, from God to Lenin’s revolution.  I do not think it matters to the moral of the play.

The moral of the play, I think, resides in the relationship between Estragon and Vladimir.  Most interpretations of the play focus on the dourness of the characters’ situation and the hopelessness of their enterprise.[18]  It has been said that the play has “a unique resonance during times of social and political crisis,” and that its appeal is as a catharsis for people’s despair.[19]  I do not see the play as a catharsis for despair.  I propose, instead, that the play is a success story with a happy ending, thus making for the strong emotional connection that we feel for the characters.

Waiting for the arrival of Godot is primarily an excuse for Estragon and Vladimir to stay together.  The real reason they sit and wait is that they complement each other, care about each other, and take care of each other.  They bicker constantly and repeatedly consider going their separate ways, but they don’t go and they don’t separate.  “It’d be better if we parted,” Estragon suggests for the nth time.  “You always say that,” Vladimir responds, “and you always come crawling back.”

Beckett has been quoted as saying that “Estragon and Vladimir are like a married couple who’ve been together too long.”[20]  They go nowhere, but they have each other.  They seem pathetic at first, but not later.  In the repetition of their daily tedium, Estragon and Vladimir encourage each other to assume a dignified posture, and they appeal to us in their striving for integrity and meaning in their lives.  As they struggle at one point with Estragon’s boots, he observes that “We don’t manage too badly, eh Didi, between the two of us.”  “Yes, yes,” Vladimir agrees, and the conclusion seems to apply to more than just the boots.

Pozzo looks down on Estragon and Vladimir in the first act when he is flying high, but envies them in the second act when he has fallen and they have stayed the same.  Vladimir asks Estragon at one point whether he thinks Pozzo and Lucky have changed.  “Very likely,” Estragon responds, “They all change.  Only we can’t.”  It has been said that the play mocks us, the audience.  We sit in the theater doing nothing while watching actors who do nothing.  We fill our meaningless time watching characters who fill their meaningless time waiting for a phantasm.[21]  I do not agree.

I think the play is in the end a love story, a story of endless love that abides through boredom and makes the tedium of daily life worthwhile.  “How long have we been together all time now?,” Estragon asks.  “I don’t know, fifty years maybe,” Vladimir answers.  Out of almost nothing, out of merely their meager selves, Estragon and Vladimir make meaningful lives through caring about each other and taking care of each other.  The hopefulness in their relationship belies the sparseness of their situation.  It does not matter whether Godot ever shows up.  And that, I believe, best explains the hold that the play has on audiences, and why people continue to sit time and again with Estragon and Vladimir, waiting for Godot.

[1] Atkinson, Brooks. “Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot.'”  The New York Times. 4/20/56. at The New York Times>

Beckett-Godot

[2] Adler, Mortimer. How to Read a Book. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1940.

[3] Bulwer-Lytton is even reportedly responsible for convincing Dickens to change the ending of Great Expectations to leave open the possibility that Pip and Estelle will get together, a change that clearly weakened the ending.

[4] The contest has been held annually since 1982 by the English Department at San Jose State University.

[5] Bruner, Jerome. Actual Minds, Possible Worlds.  Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986.

[6] Quoted in www//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiting_for_Godot

[7]  Atkinson, Brooks. “Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot.'”  The New York Times. 4/20/56. at The New York Times>

Beckett-Godot

[8] Smith, David; Imogen Carter; & Ally Carnwath.  “In Godot we trust.” 3/7/09.  The Guardian. at http://www.the guardian.com

[9] Smith, David; Imogen Carter; & Ally Carnwath.  “In Godot we trust.” 3/7/09.  The Guardian. at http://www.the guardian.com

[10] Camus, Albert.  The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. p.3.

[11]  Camus, Albert.  The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays. New York: Vintage Books, 1955. pp.90-91.

[12] Adorno, Theodor & Max Horkheimer.

[13] Reisman, David, et al.  The Lonely Crowd.

[14] Packard, Vance. The Organization Man.

[15] Marcuse, Herbert. The One Dimensional Man.

[16] Quoted in www//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiting_for_Godot

[17] Atkinson, Brooks. “Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot.'”  The New York Times. 4/20/56. at The New York Times>

Beckett-Godot

[18] Atkinson, Brooks. “Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot.'”  The New York Times. 4/20/56. at The New York Times>

Beckett-Godot

[19] Smith, David; Imogen Carter; & Ally Carnwath.  “In Godot we trust.” 3/7/09.  The Guardian. at http://www.the guardian.com

[20] Smith, David; Imogen Carter; & Ally Carnwath.  “In Godot we trust.” 3/7/09.  The Guardian. at http://www.the guardian.com

[21] Gardner, Lyn. “Waiting for Godot review – a dystopian Laurel and Hardy after an apocalypse.” 6/7/15.  Theatre. at http://www.theguardian.com