Today would have been Albert Camus‘s 100th birthday.
I have had a crush on Albert Camus for a long time. C’mon… he’s hot, rebellious, an intellectual, and like most artists I’m madly in love with, dead… the ultimate unattainable.
Although he is often called an existentialist, Camus rejected that label (“Sartre and I are often surprised to see our names linked,” he once remarked.) Some critics and readers have instead called him an “absurdist,” which is sometimes thought of as the philosophy of the absurdity of the individual experience. However, Camus rejected this label as well. Camus’s philosophy is often called the “Paradox of Absurdity“:
The essential paradox arising in Camus’s philosophy concerns his central notion of absurdity. Accepting the Aristotelian idea that philosophy begins in wonder, Camus argues that human beings cannot escape asking the question, “What is the meaning of existence?” Camus, however, denies that there is an answer to this question, and rejects every scientific, teleological, metaphysical, or human-created end that would provide an adequate answer. Thus, while accepting that human beings inevitably seek to understand life’s purpose, Camus takes the skeptical position that the natural world, the universe, and the human enterprise remain silent about any such purpose. Since existence itself has no meaning, we must learn to bear an irresolvable emptiness. This paradoxical situation, then, between our impulse to ask ultimate questions and the impossibility of achieving any adequate answer, is what Camus calls the absurd. Camus’s philosophy of the absurd explores the consequences arising from this basic paradox.
Camus’s intellect is even more impressive when you know his background. His father died when he was very little. His mother worked as a washer woman and was deaf. Mother and son lived in Algiers (the setting of one of my favorite short stories, “The Guest“) where Albert was eventually accepted into the University of Algiers. His first and most famous novel L’Etranger (The Stranger) was published in 1942.
It’s Halloween! In honor of the creepiest of holidays, why not contemplate your own mortality? GOOD TIMES!
Here are ten well-written or interesting conceived final goodbyes from folks (or folks who knew them) who have shuffled off this mortal coil.
1. William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
[Gravestone in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon]
GOOD FREND FOR IESVS SAKE FORBEARE
TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE
BLESTE BE Y MAN Y SPARES THES STONES
AND CVRST BE HE THAT MOVES MY BONES
2. Edmund Spenser (1510-1596)
(expecting the second Comminge of our Saviour Christ Jesus)
the body of Edmond Spenser, the Prince of Poets in his time;
whose divine spirit needs no other witness
than the works he left behind him.
Here at eNotes, we would NEVER let Halloween pass without a few good scares from the masters of horror! Let’s all take a break from the tedious terror of government shutdowns and 404 Errors of the new healthcare law and enjoy some scares that are a lot more fun.
1. “The shortest horror story: The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.”
― Frederic Brown
2. “At bottom, you see, we are not Homo sapiens as all. Our core is madness. The prime directive is murder. What Darwin was too polite to say, my friends, is that we came to rule the earth not because we were the smartest, or even the meanest, but because we have always been the craziest, most murderous motherfuckers in the jungle. And that is what the Pulse exposed five days ago.” – from Cell by Stephen King
A couple of years ago, I was going about my Sunday chores and listening to NPR’s Weekend Edition with Scott Simon. A writer of children’s books myself and a lover of children’s literature in general, my ears always perk up when Daniel Pinkwater comes on the show to discuss a new children’s book. The one he selected for this program was I Want My Hat Back by Jon Klassen.
I was captivated by the deceptively simple story and delighted in Simon and Pinkwater’s animated reading of the book and their descriptions of Klaussen’s illustrations. It seemed to me to strike the right balance of humor and a bit of angst, just right for the 4-to-8 year old set. (You can listen to that broadcast here.)
Of course, I wasn’t alone in my delight. Klaussen’s book went on to become a #1 New York Times bestseller, winning a place on its list of “Best Books of 2011, and also nabbing the Theodore Geisel Honor (Dr. Seuss) that same year as well.
This year, Klaussen followed his runaway hit with This Is Not My Hat, and again found popular and critical success, ultimately winning the Caldecott Award, the highest honor for an illustrated children’s book. In this story, a tiny fish comes upon a round top hat which fits him perfectly…and all will be well, unless the enormous fish to whom it belongs wakes up.
Hats and children’s books have a long history. Here are some examples which you might also recall fondly:
Poet Rowan Ricardo Phillips had an enviable problem recently. He won both the 2013 PEN/Joyce Osterweil Award for Poetry AND was also chosen as one of the winners of the Whiting Writers’ Award. Ceremonies for both the awards were to take place on the same night. Decisions, decisions….
Using some powers not bestowed on mere mortals and non-poets, Phillips managed to attend both fetes (although he was a little late for the Whiting).
The title of Phillips’ multiple-award winning work is The Ground.
Here is one of the poems from that collection:
What were you doing at age 28? If you were author Eleanor Catton, you would be graciously accepting Britain’s highest literary honor, the Man Booker Prize. Catton won the prestigious award for her second novel The Luminaries. In addition to making her the youngest recipient in the history of the prize, Catton’s 832 page novel is also the longest work to ever win.
The Luminaries is set in New Zealand during the gold rush of 1866. Catton knows the country well, as she moved from Canada to New Zealand at the age of six.
Here is an excerpt from the novel, published by London’s The Telegraph. Click here to read the longer sampling:
“Oh yes!…The sweet summons of God to man. That’s when He calls you up to His arms. And it’s the most beautiful thing, a rebirth, a new life. But, just the same I’m in no rush to find out.” ― Mr. Ives’ Christmas by Oscar Hijuelos
Oscar Hijuelos, who was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1990 for his novel The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love , died yesterday of a heart attack while playing tennis, according to his agent, Jennifer Lyons. Hijuleos was 62.
Hijuelos was the first Latino writer to be awarded the coveted prize. The novel traces the journey of two Cuban brothers who leave Havana for a life in New York to pursue a career in music. In 1992, the novel was adapted into a film starring Armand Assante and Antonio Banderas.
Although the Pulitzer brought the author fame, it also brought hardships. Hijuelos felt labeled as an “ethnic” writer. In an interview on NPR’s Newshour in 2011, Hijuelos discussed his memoir Thoughts Without Cigarettes. He told interviewer Ray Suarez that he
sometimes felt like a freak, simply because the level of my success and traveling around the world as — quote — “a Latino writer” as much as anything, was sort of wonderful and also very strange for me at the same time, because, indeed, I’m — I came up as but one version of many potential versions of Latinos that there could be.
And I have never — as I say in the memoir, I have never intended to represent myself as a spokesman for anybody but myself. And yet I would be in a roundtable in Sweden, in Stockholm, Sweden, at a live television show, and the host would come on and look around trying to figure out who the Latino guy was in the group. That kind of thing was both interesting and alarming at the same time.
Here is the complete interview. Rest in Peace, Mr. Hijuelos.