Sisyphus and the rolling stone (1)

08/11/10

Le Mythe de Sisyphe: essai sur labsurde Albert Camus 1942 ditions Gallimard This partial translation 2010 Ian Vincent Mulder This book is about a certain sensitivity, which I call the absurd, of which you will find traces scattered throughout the present century. It doesnt cover a philosophy of the absurd. That doesnt exist in our time, though basic honesty demands that I declare my debt to certain contemporary thinkers. Far from hiding this debt, Ive taken pains throughout to quote them, and discuss their thought. In the meantime its worth noting that this essay takes the absurd, which others have made into a conclusion, as a jumping-off point. In this sense you could call my remarks tentative: you cant know in advance where they may go. All you will find here is the description, pure and simple, of a spiritual affliction. We step out unencumbered by metaphysics or beliefs, with an open mind. The book confines itself within these limits, with no other bias. Suicide and the Absurd Theres only one truly serious philosophical problem: suicide. Is life worth living?: that is the fundamental question of philosophy. As for the rest: Does the world have three dimensions? How many ways can you divide up the human mind?: these come later. They are just games: the main question still waits unanswered. And if its true, as Nietzsche would have it, that a philosopher can only gain respect if he teaches by example, we hang on to the reply, expecting words to be followed by deeds in due course. Deeds are enough to convince the heart, but to get things clear in our mind too, we must dig deeper. When I ask myself how to tell if one question is more urgent than another, my reply is See what actions follow. I never heard of anybody dying for the sake of the ontological argument.(1) Galileo set great store by scientific truth, but he let it all go without a qualm the moment it put his life in peril; and thereby did well, for his truth wasnt worth being burnt at the stake. Who cares if the earth goes round the sun, or the other way round? It doesnt matter a jot; the question is plainly futile. On the other hand, I see many people choose to die because they find life not worth the living. I see others who get killed for the sake of ideas or illusions which give them a reason to live. What a paradox, that a reason to live should make an excellent reason to die! So I see that the meaning of life is the most urgent question we have. How to answer it? On all the essential problems, those to die for and those to live for, there cant be more than two schools of thought: that of La Palisse (2) or that of Don Quixote. The one is evidential and obvious, the other quixotic and lyrical. Only a balance between the two can appeal both to emotions and the need for clarity. Faced with a

subject so lowly and full of pathos, classical learning and dialectic must give way to common sense and compassion. Suicide has never been considered as anything but a social phenomenon. What we shall discuss here, on the other hand, is the relationship between suicide and individual thought. The act is gestated over time in the hearts deep silence, just like a great deed or work of art. The person himself knows nothing about it. One night, he pulls the trigger, or jumps. Someone told me about a property manager who killed himself. Five years before, he had lost his daughter. From then on, he became a changed man. It was eating him all that time: yes, the expression could not be more precise. What starts with a man thinking, ends with a man chewed up by his thoughts. Society has nothing to do with it. The worm is there in your own heart; look no further. This deadly pursuit, which starts with a clear-eyed vision of existence and ends with a plunge into darkness, is the thing we shall trace here. A suicide has many causes, the most obvious being usually the least relevant. Its rarely the result of conscious reflection, though that cant be ruled out. The final trigger can seldom be verified. Newspapers often speak of depression or incurable illness: these are useful enough explanations. But we need to know if the despairing persons friend had spoken to him that day in an offhand manner. Blame that! Thats when all the bitter weariness, held in suspension till that moment, would be suddenly precipitated (3). But if its difficult to pinpoint the exact moment in the game where the wager is placed on death, its easier to work out the acts significance. Its a gesture in a melodramaconfessing on open stage that you find life overwhelming, impossible to understand. In everyday terms, its a confession that its not worth the trouble of living. But then, living is never easy. You continue to go through the motions as life dictates out of habit, for a start. To die from choice presupposes that youve instinctively recognised how pathetic it is to live just by habit, devoid of meaning, enduring each days crazy turmoil, and the uselessness of merely putting up with it. ----------------------Notes 1. Ontological arguments are arguments, for the conclusion that God exists, from premises which are supposed to derive from some source other than observation of the worlde.g., from reason alone. Graham Oppy, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. [Translators note] 2. La Palisse gained posthumous fame from his epitaph. Read properly it meant Here lies Monsieur de la Palice: If he wasnt dead, he would still be envied. A misreading of the French (an f mistaken for a long s and envie read as en vie) produced Here lies Monsieur de la Palice: if he wasnt dead, he would be still alive. Comic songs were later written containing similar truisms, which came to be known as Lapalissades. [Translators note]

3. Let us not forget that this essay considers one side only. Suicide can manifest for much more honourable motives, for example a means of political protest in the Chinese Revolution. [Authors note] -------------------------So what is this mysterious feeling which deprives us of vital sleep? A world explicable with reasons, even if they are bad reasons, remains a familiar world. But take away the illusions, the guiding lights. Suddenly you could be a stranger to your own life, exiled with no way back: no memory of home, no hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his surroundings, this is the feeling we label the Absurd. Every healthy man has considered suicide at some time. Without any further explanation, we can link the feeling with the urge towards nothingness. Weve arrived at the topic of this essay: the link between the absurd and suicide; the exact degree to which suicide is a solution for the absurd. Lets suppose that a man whos honest with himself runs his life according to what he believes true. Belief in the absurdity of existence will then rule his conduct. Its legitimate curiosity to ask ourselves, clearly and without false sentiment, whether such a belief demands a speedy exit from a situation that makes no sense. Jump or dont jump? The required answer is a straightforward yes or no. I speak here, of course, of those who tend to live congruently with their own selves. To put it plainly, the problem is simpleand yet insoluble. For its wrong to assume that simple questions have equally simple answers, and that evidence implies more evidence. A priori and reversing the terms of the problem, just as you do or dont kill yourself, we could say there are only two philosophical solutions: that selfsame yes or no. But that would be too easy. We must have consideration for those who simply keep asking, without ever reaching a conclusion. I am being slightly ironic here: they constitute the majority. I see also that those who answer no behave as if they thought yes. In fact, if I accept Nietzsches criterion, one way or another they do think yes. And yet, of those who have committed suicide, many were convinced that life has a meaning. Such contradictions crop up constantly, never more keenly than on this point, where you would think the guidance of logic would be most desirable. Theres nothing new in comparing what philosophers have said with how they have behaved. Still, it is worth saying that of the thinkers who denied a meaning to life, no-one but Kirilov (a fictional character), Peregrinos (a figure from legend), and Jules Lequier (whose suicide was never firmly established)no-one but these followed their own logical conclusion and refused to go on living. In order to mock him, people often quote Schopenhauer who sang the praises of suicide whilst sitting at a well-stocked table. Its not a laughing matter! Its no big thing to be flippant about tragedy, but those who do may be mocked themselves one day. Faced with such contradictions and mysteries, should we then believe that theres no connection between ones view on life and ones manner of leaving it? Let us not overstate the case. A mans attachment to life exceeds all the miseries life can throw at him. The bodys decision outbids the minds, and the body recoils

from annihilation. In each of us, the habit of staying alive precedes learning how to think. In this race which daily takes us a little closer to death, the body maintains its invincible lead. At bottom lies an evasion, because it is both less and more than diversion, in Pascals sense of the word (1). The deadly evasion which forms the third theme of this essay is hope. To hope for another life earned by merit in this one, or the selfdeception of those who live not for life itself, but some great overarching idea which purifiesthis gives meaning to life, yet ultimately betrays it. So, many factors play their part in clouding the issue. Till now, weve played on words, toying with the idea that finding life meaningless leads inexorably towards declaring that its not worth living. In fact theres no necessary relation between the two. All we need do is steer clear of being distracted by the confusions, separations and non-sequiturs already noted. We must set these to one side and go straight to the main problem. One kills oneself because life isnt worth the trouble of living: here is our truthsterile truism as it may be. But can this insult to existence, this ultimate denial, arise from existence itself being senseless? Does lifes absurdity make us seek escape in hope or suicide? This is what we must pursue and illuminate, setting aside all the rest. If the absurd demands death, then this problem demands we give it priority over all other ways of thinking, all dispassionate mind-games. The fine distinctions and psychological approaches that an objective mind always manages to bring to every problem, have no place in a passionate quest like ours. All we omit is an unjust thought, I mean a logical one. Its not easy to do that. Its always easy to be logical; but its almost impossible to remain logical to the bitter end. Men who die by their own hand follow their feeling, headlong to the end. Reflecting on suicide prompts me to put the only question I find interesting: is there a logic which goes all the way to death? I can only know the answer by pursuing it on the evidence, free from disordered passion. I shall use the form of reasoning I set out here: I call it absurd reasoning. Many have begun along this route, but I dont yet know if they have persevered to the end. Karl Jaspers, explaining that its impossible to treat the world as a unified construct, exclaims, This limitation leads me back to myself! I cannot hide behind the pretence of an objective viewpoint. Neither my self (my I) nor the existence of the Other can be the object any more. In this, he conjures up, like others before him, that arid desert where thought reaches its furthest limit. Like many others, certainly, but how anxious they were to get out of there! To this final bend in the journey, where thought falters, many have arrived, amongst them some of the humblest, who let go of what they held dearest: their own lives. Others, princes of the mind, let go too; but it was a suicide of thought, the purest form of revolt. The real effort, by contrast, is to stay put, to the extent one can, whilst inspecting the bizarre vegetation of these far-flung regions. Those who are tenacious and clear-sighted take their privileged seats at the gladiatorial contest where Hope, Death and the Absurd engage one another. Its a dance, basic yet subtle, in which the mind can analyse the steps before doing them, before enacting them in real life. --------------------Notes

1. Man finds nothing so intolerable as to be in a state of complete rest, without passions, without occupation, without diversion, without effort. Then he faces his nullity, loneliness, inadequacy, dependence, helplessness, emptiness. And at once there wells up from the depths of his soul boredom, gloom, depression, chagrin, resentment, despair. Blaise Pascal, Penses. [Translators note] --------------------The Walls of the Absurd Like great works of art, deep feelings carry more meaning than they know. The constancy of any movement towards change, or resistance against change, lies in habits of doing and thinking; then unfolds into consequences unknown to the soul. Strong feelings parade within their own universe, whether it be grand or grotesque. Their passion lights up a private world, in which they meet their own kind. Thus we may encounter a universe of jealousy, ambition, egoism or generosity. By world I mean a metaphysic, an attitude of mind. Whats true of particular thoughts is more so for indeterminate emotions, where confused mingles with definite, distant mingles with present: as happens with thoughts inspired by beauty or the absurd. The sense of absurdity can hit any man in the face, on any street corner. In its desolate nakedness, its light that fails to shine, it cant be grasped. But even this difficulty is worth a moments reflection. Its probably true that another man remains forever unknown to us: in him is some irreducible essence that will forever escape our grasp. But in practice I know individuals; and I recognise them by their behaviour, the sum of their actions, the consequences they set in motion as they pass through life. In like manner, all the irrational feelings beyond the grasp of analysis are such that I can define them in practice, appreciate them in practice, assemble the sum of their consequences into some kind of intelligent structure; grasp and comprehend their faces and thus retrace their universe. It certainly seems that having seen the same actor a hundred times, I wont get to know him any better personally. But if I add up all the heroes he has brought to life, and claim to know him better after seeing him in a hundred rolesyoud grant me some truth in that. It seems like a paradox, but its an apologue too(1), for it carries a moral. It teaches that a man defines himself as much by his fooling as by his sincerity. Thus, going a touch deeper, you find feelings inaccessible to your own heart but partially betrayed in the acts they inspire and the attitudes of mind they inform. You can see that Im beginning to define a method here. But you also see that this method is one of analysis rather than knowledge. Methods imply their own metaphysic; unknowingly they reveal conclusions they claim not to know yet. Thus, the last pages of a book are implied already in the first pages. The knot cant be avoided. Such a method acknowledges the impossibility of true knowledge. We can only take into account appearances, feel the temperature, as it were. The feeling of absurdity is beyond our grasp, but perhaps we can reach an understanding of it in different, yet closely related worlds: intellect; the art of living; or more simply art itself. At the beginning, absurdity makes itself felt like an ambiencelike the weather. In the end, we find everything absurd: our

attitude of mind illuminates the whole world in a clarity which arrives when its ready to, lighting up the unrelenting countenance of that special person who can recognise it for what it is. ------Any great thought or deed starts with something trivial. They might be conceived on a street corner, or in a restaurant foyer. Its like that with absurdity, too. For all its nobility, the absurd generally springs from humble birth. When asked What are you thinking about? a man might answer nothing. His beloved knows he may be bluffing; but a sincere nothing stands for an odd state of soul, where nothing speaks volumes, where the chain of daily routines is broken, where no link can be found to connect it back again. It is the first manifestation of absurdity. Thats when the stage-sets collapse. Get up, ride the tram, four hours in office or factory, eat, ride the tram, four more hours at work, eat, sleepMonday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday, all in the same rhythm. Most of our time passes easily this way. One day, the why pops up. Then it all starts, the sense of weariness tinged with a certain astonishment. Startsthis is an important word. Weariness comes at the end of a mechanical existence, but at the same time triggers a stirring of consciousness, wakes it up and sets in motion what follows. What follows is either that you sink back unconsciously into the chain, or that you wake up for good. Waking up leads in time to its own consequence: suicide or revival. In itself, weariness is disheartening. But in this instance I come to the conclusion that its good. For everything starts with being conscious: without this, nothing has any value. There is nothing original in these remarks, of course. But they make sense, and thats enough for now, as a brief recognition of how the absurd arises. At the origin of everything is a simple sense of concern. In the same way, for all the days of an unremarkable life, time carries us forward. But a moment always comes when we must carry it. We live for the future: tomorrow, later, when you get a job, youll understand when youre old enough. Fine words, in view of the fact that one day well die. Then the day comes when a man discovers that hes thirty years old. Thus he affirms his youth. But he also places himself at a point in time. Hes at a certain point on a curve, and recognises he must follow its path. Hes in thrall to time. In the horror of this realisation, he sees his worst enemy: tomorrow. There he was, wishing for tomorrow, when his whole being ought to have refused it. This sudden revolt of the flesh is the absurd.(2) A step lower and heres the strangeness: to see for yourself that the world is a kind of dense jungle, to glimpse something utterly alien in a stone, to feel how intensely a natural landscape can blank us out. In the depths of beauty lies something inhuman: and these hills, this gentle sky, the shape of trees, are suddenly stripped of their illusion, henceforth more distant than a lost paradise. A primitive hostility, nursed for millennia, rises against us once more. For a moment, our understanding of the world slips. For centuries all we have seen are the patterns we projected on it, and now we dont have the strength to play that trick any more. The world escapes us because it has reverted to its true nature. These surfaces, these habitual masks,

revert to what lies behind them. They retreat from us. Its just like the moment when, beneath the surface of a womans facea woman one has loved for months or yearsone suddenly sees a stranger. What then was desire now feels like being very alone. But the time hasnt yet come. Theres just one thing: this dense jungle, this strangeness. This is the absurd. Human beings also give out something inhuman. In certain times of clarity, the mechanical aspect of their movements, their senseless pantomime, makes everything around them stupid. A man speaks on the phone behind a glass partition. You cant hear him, only watch his meaningless mime; and you wonder why hes alive. This uneasiness in the face of human inhumanity, this sinking feeling, confronted with what we are, this nausea as a contemporary author (3) calls it, this too is the absurd. I come at last to death and the feeling it inspires in us. Everything has been said already, and wed do best to steer clear of pathos. But one thing never hits us strongly enough: the whole world behaves as if it didnt know. For in truth, nobody has experienced death. You cant truly know anything unless you have actually gone through it, with your eyes open. Its hardly possible, even, to speak of experiencing the death of someone else. What we see is a makeshift from our imagination, that we never find convincing. We are not really persuaded by the conventional melancholy. The horror comes from mathematical inevitability. Whats frightening about time is the way it resolves every problem into a single solution. All the fine talk about soul is freshly negated, at least in the short term. Heres a dead body: a slap wont bruise it any more, its soul has fled. This primitive and defining aspect of lifes adventure summarises the feeling of the absurd, showing life to be mortal, ultimately useless. Morality and striving have no a priori justification, in face of the bloody mathematics which order our destiny. But again, all this has been said again and again. Ill limit myself to a rapid analysis, and to pointing out some obvious themes from literature and philosophy. They are the stuff of everyday conversation, nothing is reinvented. But we need to be clear on the evidence, so that we can ask the question posed at the beginning of this book. What interests me, let me repeat, isnt so much to discover instances of the absurd. It is their consequences. Once assured of the facts, what should one conclude, how far should one go in order not to evade anything? Should one die by ones own hand, or keep hoping despite all? We must first make a quick inventory, on the level of intellect. ------The minds first step is to distinguish true from false. But as soon as we reflect on our own thoughts, the first thing we discover is a contradiction. Its useless to force ourselves to be convincing. Over the centuries no-one has proved this more clearly and elegantly than Aristotle. The often-ridiculed consequence of these opinions is that they destroy themselves. When we say all is true, we declare the truth of the opposite proposition, thus declaring the falsity of our own proposition (because its opposite refuses to allow its own truth). And if one says all is false, then the statement itself must be false too. If I say that the only false

statement is the one opposite to my own, or that the only statement not false is my own, I still find myself obliged to admit an infinite number of true or false statements. For in delivering a true statement, I declare at the same time that it is true, and so on to infinity. This vicious circle is merely the first of a series, where the mind, turning in on itself, gets sucked into a vertiginous spiral. These paradoxes are irreducibly simple. Whatever the word-games and logical acrobatics, understanding is primarily a matter of bringing things together into unity. The minds deepest desire, even in its most elaborate processes, is to connect with the deepest feeling of the whole man as he faces his own universe. It demands intimate contact, and thirsts for clarity. For man, the only way to understand the world is to render it in human terms, put his own stamp upon it. The cats world isnt the same as the anteaters. Every human thought is anthropomorphic--it could not be otherwise. The mind striving to understand reality cant be satisfied without translating it into thought. If man could recognise that the universe could also love and suffer, hed reach an understanding with it. If thought could find eternal relations embodied in the changing mirror of earthly phenomena, which could be summarised into a unique principle: that would be an intellectual joy to make the abode of the blessed appear like a tawdry fake. This longing for unity, this appetite for the absolute conveys the essence of the human drama. It doesnt mean that the longing can get easily satisfied. For if, crossing the gulf between desire and fulfilment, we agree with Parmenides in asserting the One (whatever that may be), we fall into the ridiculous contradiction of a mind asserting total unity, whilst demonstrating its own separateness, and the very diversity which it claims to resolve. This further vicious circle completes the stifling of our hopes. So much for the obvious. Once again, I note these things not as interesting in themselves, but for where they lead us. Another obvious factmans mortalityhas led some to extremes. In this essay its worth keeping constantly in mind the gap between what we think we know and what we really know. In the guise of ignorance, we go along with ideas which would turn our lives upside down if they were deep-felt experience. Such a tangle of contradiction demonstrates how separate we are from our own creations. So long as the mind stays silent and makes no move towards realizing its hopes, it sees its own reflection in the well-ordered unity of its longing. But the moment it makes a move, everything cracks and shatters, splitting the realm of the known into a myriad shimmering shards. After this, theres no going back to reconstruct the familiar surface of things and the peace of mind which they once offered. After centuries of investigations, so often abandoned, the thinkers among us have no doubt this is true for all knowledge. Setting aside professional rationalists, the rest of us are left to despair of truly knowing anything. A really meaningful history of human thought would be about its successive recantations and inadequacies. Can there be anyone or anything that I can really claim to know? There is the heart within me: I can feel it, and confirm its existence. I can touch this world, and again, I confirm that it exists. There my science ends, the rest is all a construction. For if I try to gasp this me about which Im so sure, if I try to define and summarise it, its like water running through my fingers. One by one, I could depict all the aspects it

assumes, and that others see in it: this upbringing, that birth, this enthusiasm, that silence, this nobility, that baseness. But these things cant be added together. This heart of mine can never be defined. Between the certainty that I exist, and being certain what my existence comprises, there lies an unfathomable gulf. Ill be a stranger to myself forever. In psychology as in logic, there are truths, but no single truth. Know thyself, says Socrates, but it means no more than the prescription of the confessional: be virtuous. Longing is there, but ignorance too. The topics are great but the games are sterile. They are only legitimate to the extent that were content with something rough-and-ready. Here are trees, I feel how their bark is gnarled. Heres water, I taste it. Scents of grass and stars; nights; evenings where the soul unwinds; how can I deny the power and strength of this world? Yet all the science on earth cant convince me that the world is mine. You describe it, you teach me to analyse and classify. You enumerate the laws of nature, and in my thirst to know I accept them as true. You disassemble its parts: I get increasingly hopeful. Finally you tell me that this glorious universe is reducible to atoms, and atoms are reducible to electrons. All this is good and I wait for you to go on. But then you speak of an invisible planetary system where electrons revolve round a nucleus. You explain the world in an image. So I see that youve reached the level of poetry. Now Ill never know anything. Before I have time to get annoyed, youve already changed your theory. So this science which was supposed to teach me everything ends in conjecture; its lucidity darkens into metaphor; its uncertainty resolves itself into art. I didnt need all that effort. The soft lines of these hills, the evenings hand falling on my troubled heartthese teach me much more. Im brought back to my starting-point. I understand that if science can help me grasp phenomena, and make and inventory of them, it still doesnt explain the world. Even if I could run my finger over every surface, I still wouldnt know any more than I do. You offer me the choice between a description which is certain yet teaches me nothing, and conjectures which claim to teach me, but lack any certainty. As a stranger to myself and the world, with no weapons other than thoughts which contradict themselves the moment they affirm something, how come I can only attain peace by rejecting knowledge and experience? How come my urge to conquer comes up against a brick wall impervious to all my efforts? Exerting my will merely stirs up paradoxes? Everythings arranged to give birth to a tainted repose, engendered by indifference, a somnolent heart or renunciation of this world. Intuition too tells me, in its own way, that this world is absurd. Blind reason, its opposite, may well claim that all is clear: Ive been waiting for proof and hoping its true. Yet centuries of pretension have passed by; and looking over the heads of so many eloquent and persuasive figures, I know it isnt true. On this plane at least, theres no happiness if I cant know. This universal reason, whether practical or ideal, this determinism, these categories supposed to explain everythingcommon sense finds them laughable. They have nothing to do with the mind. They belie its true nature, which is to be shackled. It is within this limited and undecipherable universe that mans destiny must henceforth acquire its sense. A throng of irrationals has arisen, which will surround him till his ultimate end. With his restored and newly-focused clarity, the feeling of the absurd becomes distinct and particular. I said that the world is absurd, but I went too fast. The world

just isnt reasonable, thats all one can say about it. So this is the absurd: the conflict between the actual unreason and the hopeless desire for clarity which so profoundly resonates in man. The absurd depends as much on man as on the world. For the moment, its the only thing which links them. It ties them to one another just as hate can tear beings apart. Thats the only thing I can see clearly in this measureless universe of my adventures. Let us stop here. If I take it as true, this absurdity which governs my relation to life, if I permeate myself with this feeling which grips me as I regard the circus of this world, with this clearsightedness imposed on me by my scientific discipline, then I must sacrifice my all to these certainties; and look them in the eye, to make sure I hold fast to them. Above all I must adapt my conduct to them, and follow them through, regardless of consequence. Im talking of honesty. But I first want to know if thought can still stay alive in these deserts. I know already that thought has at least been to these deserts, and found sustenance there. It realised that it had fed hitherto on ghosts. It provided occasion for some of the most urgent themes in human reflection. From the moment it is recognised, absurdity becomes a passion, the most heart-rending of all. To know if you can live with your passions, to know if you can accept their fundamental law, which is to sear your heart whilst exalting it: there lies the question. But its not the question to ask ourselves yet. Its at the centre of this experience and well come back to it. Let us above all recognise the themes and impulses born of that time wilderness. Everyone these days knows how to list them. There have always been defenders of the irrational. The flame of what we may call humiliated thought has never yet been extinguished. The critique of rationalism has been made so many times, youd think there was nothing more to to be done. Yet our own time witnesses a rebirth of these paradoxical systems which try to trip up reason as if it had always been forging ahead in the forefront of thought. Thats not so much a proof of reasons efficacy, as of its evergreen hopes. If we look at history, we see two persisting attitudes: mans essential passion torn between the pull towards unity, and his clear vision of the walls which box him in. Perhaps never, in any epoch, has the attack on reason been so powerful as today. Since Zarathustras great cry: By chance, it is the worlds most ancient form of nobility. I granted it it to all things when I said no eternal will stands above them, since Kierkegaards Sickness Unto Death, that malady which ends in death with nothing thereafter, we have been assailed by a succession of weighty and tormenting themes, all absurd; or at any rateand this distinction is criticalirrational and religious. -------------------Notes (1) Apologue: an allegorical story intended to convey a useful lesson; a moral fable. (Applied more especially to a story in which the actors or speakers are taken from the brute creation or from inanimate nature.)Oxford English Dictionary [Translators note]

(2) But not in the proper sense. Its not a matter of definition, but of adding up the various feelings which make up the absurd. Having added them up, we still havent attained a full definition of the absurd. [Authors note] (3) Jean-Paul Sartre. [Translators note] ----------------