Oh Albert Camus, can you teach me about death and God?
You left me alone reading 'The Stranger,' sitting there in my pathetic way, weary and heavy-headed. Death is nothing short of a crippling fear for me, but you say it so simply and gracefully: Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. It's funny, too, because everyone calls you an existentialist. But you didn't think you were, right? The existentialist doesn't believe there is innate meaning--and that means there may not be a God.
How can you wake up under this beautiful blue sky and so simply write Mersault in that way? He makes me feel that I am all alone. I'll tell you why. I don't believe in God, or meaning. We construct it as we go along, needing definitions and answers and values. Never waking is our main fear: it, ironically, keeps us going and keeps us hoping. We paddle like tired fish and run like wild beasts to the ending line for some sort of reward. I don't know if it will come? I don't want to read characters who can be strong. I don't want to read of characters who want to join me in the misery of knowing there is nothing more. Can't you have Mersault's mother come back from death? Can't you have written about heaven? I know, I know...
This world, to me, seems to yearn for an understanding we could never have. How could we limit the beauty to one entity? I pray I am wrong, because saying the words, Aujourd'hui, maman est morte would simply tear my heart from my chest. I can't tell if I pity or envy Mersault. His apathy, is it feigned? Is he careless? Is he not apathetic at all? I somehow think he sees much more than we all do; he has the bravery to know he has no power and there is no meaning to the petty things we continue doing each day. I want to be like Mersault, I don't want to cry over death.
But I read 'The Plague', too. And my heart hurt the entire time. How did you do it? How did you write one man so seemingly empty, and write yet another story where the blood falls from the pages? What am I to believe—that God is there but won't interfere with the little trivialities of our existence, or that we're alone sitting here in one small neighborhood of Big time, waiting for answers?
When I say one day Aujourd'hui, maman est morte, will those words be the end? Will those words be the truth?