The Fall, Albert Camus — An Edifice of the Human Condition
This essay will serve as a collection of thoughts and various reflections that I gathered upon finishing Albert Camus’ The Fall. It is a philosophical novel that I encourage you to explore for yourself, as this essay is only a brief summation of my (ongoing) love affair with the text:
First, I’ll offer a quick overview of the text.
- Jean-Baptiste Clamence is a self-described “judge-penitent” who eloquently details — in the form of an extended monologue, all spoken to a silent recipient — his journey from a didactic lawyer in the city of a Paris, to a debaucherous cad in private, and then a nihilistic connoisseur of self-reproach in the Dante-esque landscape of a seedy bar in Amsterdam. It delicately mirrors the Fall narrative (hence the foreboding title) in the opening chapters of the Hebrew Bible. However, Camus’ masterful use of this particular mythology is woven into the text in a way that feels unnaturally foreign, or perhaps not foreign enough to our own experiences. It is an unparalleled, exhaustive exegesis of the human condition; sin and virtue walk hand-in-hand in his poetic send-up to existence.
I have often had the experience of encountering some philosophers at times in my life where I needed their expressions of meaning, such as when I first began studying Nietzsche a number of years ago.
However, this novel felt less like like the abyss calling out to me in recognition of our shared pain, and more like the process by which I could freely confess to concealing the very existence of such an abyss. Let me explain:
In studying philosophy, I often find myself nodding in agreement with those thinkers that truly capture a notion that I’ve only been able to hint at in my own articulation of ontology. For instance, John Stuart Mill asserting the key axiom of utilitarianism, “The greatest good to the greatest number,” feels less like the birth of a new system of thought, and more like a useful recognition of hidden order; a statement that tactfully appears to uncover a colossal mystery about the nature of being.
The Fall by Camus is unique in that it feels like an indictment of many of my own private thoughts, rather than a useful set of guiding principles gesturing to a theory of meaning. Truly, Clamence utters a number of harsh provocations that seem at odds with societal ideas of morality, love, or friendship. Yet, the familiarity in his remarks is akin to interpreting a foreign language using a guidebook that is only known to yourself — Clamence acts as the mouthpiece for all the truly abhorrent notions that I’ve encountered in the exploration of my own soul.
I winced as I read his descriptions of why many act pious; small performances of charity arise, not out of true generosity, but out arrogance that we might be regarded as more upright than the rest. I felt rather naked as my eyes danced across the words: the “judge-penitent” had truly ripped away the curtain obscuring any unchecked vanity.
We are, at core, absorbed with the interests of ourselves. Therefore, we only interact with those lesser creatures when it directly comforts our own preconceptions of self.
The egotistical headmaster of our soul, unflinching and ready to pounce upon all who encroach upon our ambitious will to power — and it is from this presupposition that we employ the bodies and minds of those in close proximity.
Truly, his characterization of all human interaction as originating from a place of innate despondency feels very familiar to this journal. He and I use different phrases, but we are both fixated on the subject of why individuals choose to engage in anything at all.
Furthermore, I adored his takedown of jealousy in terms of romantic envy. According to his understanding, jealousy stems from the guilt of what one might do if placed in a similar context/environment. Jealousy is not only self-centered — it’s an organic coping mechanism for traversing survivors guilt in the context of a perfectly adequate relationship. It is the disgruntled acknowledgment of our own fantasies of infidelity with the passing stranger. Now, I have only experienced jealousy in a few limited instances, but I certainly don’t disconnect myself from the truth of what Camus describes in his novel. No, just like Clamence, I share this to reconcile my own sinful nature. Clamence recognizes his own deficiency, both as an abuser of his fellow citizens (particularly women), and a fanatic of strong drink — all in pursuit of mental paralysis. It is a temporary resolution to shield one’s ears of the internal laughter.
The laughter that the judge-penitent encounters are a metaphor for his inability to properly distinguish between his own flawed principles, and the primacy of upholding a particular image to the public; it’s a realization of duplicity, further shredding his own pantomimed grin.
Thus, Clamence despairs at his own guilt, and endeavors to usurp other sinners by reveling in the spectacle of his own sin — a. coup d’etat that separates him from those measly men and women who vehemently deny their connection to that primordial allegiance to vice. In this sense, Clamence is the evolution of a godless society (à la “the death of God”) seeking comfort in their own misery.
At last, the “judge-penitent” declares,
“Pronounce to yourself the words that years later haven’t ceased to resound through my nights, and which I will speak at last through your mouth: “O young girl, throw yourself again into the water so that I might have a second time the chance to save the two of us!” A second time, eh, what imprudence! Suppose, dear sir, someone actually took our word for it? It would have to be fulfilled. Brr…! the water is so cold! But let’s reassure ourselves. It’s too late now, it will always be too late. Fortunately.”
The novel closes on a rather somber note, indicating Clamence’s gained appreciation for the death of the mysterious young woman. Rather morbidly, her demise (assumed) precipitated his journey towards the realization that he is a fraud in various aspects of his life, namely because he disregarded her cries for help out of intense devotion to self. His awakening expunges the internal mocking (represented by the laughter he encounters throughout his journey), and he is now liberated. This quickening that Clamence experiences are not dissimilar to the climax of the Fall narrative in scripture, as both end with a type of newfound cognizance of the defining event — the resistance against God is palpable in both: implicit in the former, and explicit in the latter.
The melancholy (or, existentialist rather) realization that — in spite of his earlier tone — he is no longer at odds with the decisive event in his past. For truly, even without the suicide of the young woman, he was predestined to uncover his own perverted motives.
Still, as Clamence remarks, “It’s too late now, it will always be too late,” and perhaps that is as it should be.
Absurd, isn’t it?
