It's a strange tale of a man who didn't care. There are probably plenty of people like that around, but they must be in disguise. Well, it can't be that bad. Let's get married, his girlfriend tells him, and he says, "I don't care. Be my buddy, his suspicious neighbor tells him, and he replies, I don't care. Would you be our representative in Paris?
Albert Camus (1913-1960) was a representative of non-metropolitan French literature. His origin in Algeria and his experiences there in the thirties were dominating influences in his thought and work. Of semi-proletarian parents, early attached to intellectual circles of strongly revolutionary tendencies, with a deep interest in philosophy (only chance prevented him from pursuing a university career in that field), he came to France at the age of twenty-five.
Camus was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1959.
Camus died on 4 January 1960 at the age of 46, in a car accident near Sens, in Le Grand Fossard in the small town of Villeblevin.
There's a new office opening and we need someone to keep an eye on things there," his boss suggests, and again he answers, "I don't care. Well, that is, there is zero interest in all spheres. Some kind of life, without meaning or purpose. The day has passed, and that's fine. What's interesting is that everyone takes this "whatever" in his own way. If a girl wants to get married, she takes his "all the same" as consent. If a friend needs a witness in the police, he also takes this "whatever" as agreement. Only the boss seems to have figured out this indifferent guy. Maybe he's not indifferent, though. Maybe he's tired. It is likely that tired, because, glimpsed in some conversations, that previously passions and ambitious plans turned his head, too. But all these dreams have crashed against the harsh truth of life. And he became such an indifferent man, expecting nothing from life.
And, most importantly, just when he seemed to come to his senses a little bit and take interest in at least some manifestations of life, he takes and kills the man. Just some kind of fatal desire to destroy his life. And so, sitting in prison, he finally realizes that he lacks freedom. He lacks the ability to go where he wants, to do what he wants... But he copes with this problem, too, by turning to memories, but what does he remember? Not meetings and events in his life, not family and friends, no. He remembers things. His room, inch by inch, every little thing, every knickknack. It's as if he has nothing else to remember but his room. And here, in prison, he again takes absolutely no interest in the course of his case, but humbly awaits trial, putting his life at the disposal of strangers, people he does not know at all. And these people take him apart and ascribe to him traits that are not peculiar to him, and probably make conclusions based on their analysis that this man is a terrible, callous man, a monster and almost a maniac. And how not to recall here a famous phrase: "Fear not your enemies - they can only kill, do not fear your friends - they can only betray, afraid of people indifferent - it is with their tacit consent all the worst crimes in the world.
This is a strange tale. It is filled with stuffiness and sizzling sunshine, dust and headaches. It is filled with the sea and unfulfilled hopes for the better. I never understood what the author wanted to tell me, telling this strange story. The only thing is that you can't bring yourself to a state where you don't care anymore. Even if you deserve peace, you won't get any peace in this world. Well, if you still want peace more than life, then don't kill anyone, or your wishes will be fulfilled, and you will get eternal peace with the help of society.
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