There are some like Rieux who watch and document with compassion, the struggles of the people who are made to see the great meaninglessness of life.
There are no lofty emotions, no fairy-tale endings; everything frays when subjected to daily use. The book explores the every-day chipping away of life.
What separates then the afternoons I could spend in a garden not realising the end of day until my back got colder, from the ones where I lie in stupor before the television?
What did it matter if Marie was now offering her lips to a new Mersault?
This weekend I thought about the things we do to live with ourselves- our individual solitary selves, us- shorn of everything we put around it. That being whose thoughts, overt and subversive, are all within your physical body. Here I am, marching towards my inevitable end, every day with myself. Shortening processes that I know I will repeat every day, until the day I … Continue reading The habit of our lives