The Fall

After reading through some biographies about Albert Camus, my suspicions about The Fall have been confirmed. The book is a confessional. But so are all of his books in one way or another.

My favorite author has injected aspects of what is truest to his heart and also the most painful and tragic aspects of his life and failings into his work, yet he has managed to also stay guarded in some way.

I can relate to all of this, but I wonder if the dimness of my life and my flailings and failings compared to his wild swings has also stifled my creativity. It is possible for me to jump into the world of Don Juanism, though I've always been faithful to all of my girlfriends that I've had. I too feel more rejuvenated in the company of women, but the brotherhood of men is also important to me.

Loyalty is a word often ignored, but my loyal friendships mean more to me than everything else. I am now a year single, and have not had a single moment of doubt, regret, or apprehension about moving on. Guilt was a driving theme of The Fall, and I understand now this is primarily because Camus felt himself a guilty man. As in The Stranger, Camus identified in many ways with Mersault and other characters in the book. But it is more complicated than that, as it always is.

We don't need a god to deal with guilt, humans suffice on their own. This idea is taken from Camus as well, and I'm stricken by how many people I see wallow in their guilt. So many people waiting for judgement, for the verdict, for the reckoning. The feeling of guilt is an over-riding agony compared to the relief of reaching a verdict. And in crimes of the heart, crimes of not being good enough, crimes of aloofness, crimes of feeling unapologetic when one thinks he should, crimes of caring for the wrong things, crimes of not feeling guilty when you know you should... that last one is particularly odd, guilt about not feeling guilt.

But the truth is, despite everything you may think of me - I am a very moral individual. Where I exceed Camus is that I don't falter on my core beliefs, but that may not be good for the artist in me. I don't have that tension swirling in me about my moral turpitude. Instead, I fall in the other direction... I feel often as if I've not done enough, failing on the side of inaction. I could do more, but finding my voice and my path hasn't come as easily to me as it did to Camus. However, it is clear now that he will be my marker of comparison from here on out, regardless of the fairness to myself or to him. Contemporaries be damned... this world is somewhat lost to me, I don't see how to fit into it. Camus ended his life marginalized on all things that he cared about by the mainstream of society, and now in his death he is being rejuvenated. I'm not really interested in what happens after my death, and I doubt that I'll have a legacy like his, but I feel the weight of time moving constantly.

My work now does not suffer from a lack of commitment, but a lack of focus. I need to zero in on the essentials, on my themes and develop them. I need to develop myself and I need to feel more discomfort and exhilaration. Both are available in droves. Both are waiting.