Excerpts
from
Albert Camus,
1942,
Vintage Press,
p. 95 -99.
[At this point
in the novel,
the "Stranger"
is in prison,
awaiting trial
for the
dream-like
killing
of
an unknown Arab.]
And it was then
that the things
I've never
liked
to talk about
began.
Not that they
were
particularly terrible;
I've no wish
to exaggerate
and
I suffered less
than others.
Still,
there was one thing
in those early days
that
was really irksome:
my habit
of thinking
like
a free man.
For instance,
I would
suddenly be seized
with a desire
to go
down to the beach
for a swim.
And
merely
to have imagined
the sound
of ripples at my feet,
the smooth feel
of the water
on my body
as I struck out,
and
the wonderful sensation
of relief
it gave
brought home
still more cruelly
the narrowness
of my cell.
Still,
that phase
lasted
a few months
only.
Afterward,
I had
prisoner's
thoughts.
I waited
for
the daily walk
in the courtyard
or
a visit
from my lawyer.
As for
the rest
of the time,
I managed
quite well,
really.
I've
often thought
that
had I
been compelled
to live
in
the
trunk of a dead tree,
with nothing to do
but gaze up
at the patch of sky
just overhead,
I'd
have got
used to it
by
degrees.
I'd have learned
to watch
for
the passing of birds
or
drifting clouds,
as
I had come
to watch for
my lawyer's
odd neckties,
or
in another world,
to wait
patiently
till Sunday
for
a spell
of love-making
with Marie.
Well,
here,
anyhow,
I wasn't
penned
in
a hollow tree trunk.
There
were others
in the world
worse off
than I.
I remembered
it had been one
of Mother's
pet ideas --
she was
always voicing it --
that
in the long run
one gets used
to anything.
Usually,
however,
I didn't think things out
so far.
Those first months
were trying,
of course;
but the very effort
I had to make
helped me
through them.
For instance,
I
was plagued
by
the desire
for a woman --
which
was natural enough,
considering my age.
I never thought
of Marie
especially.
I was obsessed
by thoughts
of this woman
or that,
of
all the ones I'd had,
all the circumstances
under which
I'd
loved them;
so much so
that
the cell
grew crowded
with their faces,
ghosts
of my old passions.
That
unsettled me,
no doubt;
but,
at least,
it served
to kill time.
I gradually
became
quite friendly
with
the chief jailer,
who
went the rounds
with
the kitchen hands
at
mealtimes.
It was he
who brought up
the subject
of women.
"That's what
the men here
grumble about
most,"
he told me.
I said
I felt like that
myself.
"There's
something unfair
about it,"
hitting a man
when
he's down."
"But
that's
the whole point
of it,"
he said;
"that's why
you fellows
are
kept in prison."
"I don't follow."
"Liberty,"
he said,
"means
that.
You're
being deprived
of your liberty."
It
had never before
struck me
in that light,
but
I saw his point.
"That's true,"
I said.
"Otherwise
it wouldn't be
a punishment."
The jailer nodded.
"Yes,
you're different,
you can use
your brains.
The others can't.
Still,
those fellows
find a way out;
they do it
by themselves."
With which
remark
the jailer
left my cell.
Next day
I did
like
the others.
The lack
of
cigarettes,
too,
was
a trial.
When I
was brought
to
the prison,
they took away
my belt,
my shoelaces,
and
the contents
of my pockets,
including
my cigarettes.
Once I
had been given
a cell
to myself
I asked
to be given back,
anyhow,
the cigarettes.
Smoking
was
forbidden,
they
informed
me.
That,
perhaps,
was what got me down
the most;
in fact,
I suffered
really badly
during
the first few days.
I even
tore off
splinters
from my plank bed
and
sucked them.
All day long
I felt faint
and bilious.
It passed
my
understanding
why
I shouldn't
be allowed
even
to smoke;
it
could have
done
no one
any
harm.
Later on,
I understood
the idea behind it;
this privation,
too,
was part
of my punishment.
But,
by the time
I understood,
I'd lost
the craving,
so it had ceased
to be
a punishment.
Except for
these privations
I wasn't
too unhappy.
Yet again,
the
whole problem
was:
how
to
kill time.
After a while,
however,
once I'd learned
the
trick
of
remembering things,
I never had
a moment's boredom.
Sometimes
I would exercise
my memory
on
my bedroom
and,
starting from a corner,
make the round,
noting
every object I saw
on the way.
At first
it was over
in a minute or two.
But
each time
I repeated
the
experience,
it took
a little longer.
I made
a point
of visualizing
every piece
of furniture,
and
each article upon
or in it,
and then
every detail
of each article,
and finally
the details
of the details,
so to speak;
a tiny dent
or incrustation,
or a chipped edge,
and the exact
grain and color
of
the woodwork.
At the same time
I forced myself
to keep
my inventory
in mind
from start to finish,
in the right order
and omitting
no item.
With the result that,
after a few weeks,
I could spend hours
merely
in listing the objects
in my bedroom.
I found that
the more I thought,
the more details,
half-forgotten
or
malobserved,
floated up
from
my memory.
There seemed
no end
to them.
So I learned
that
even after
a single day's
experience
of
the
outside world
a man
could easily
live
a hundred years
in prison.
He'd have
laid up enough
memories
never
to be
bored.
Obviously,
in
one way,
this
was
a
compensation.
+++
from
"The Stranger",
a novel
byAlbert Camus,
1942,
p. 95 -99.
in the novel,
the "Stranger"
is in prison,
awaiting trial
for the
dream-like
killing
of
an unknown Arab.]
And it was then
that the things
I've never
liked
to talk about
began.
were
particularly terrible;
I've no wish
to exaggerate
and
I suffered less
than others.
Still,
there was one thing
in those early days
that
was really irksome:
my habit
of thinking
like
a free man.
For instance,
I would
suddenly be seized
with a desire
to go
down to the beach
for a swim.
And
merely
to have imagined
the sound
of ripples at my feet,
the smooth feel
of the water
on my body
as I struck out,
and
the wonderful sensation
of relief
it gave
brought home
still more cruelly
the narrowness
of my cell.
Still,
that phase
lasted
a few months
only.
Afterward,
I had
prisoner's
thoughts.
I waited
for
the daily walk
in the courtyard
or
a visit
from my lawyer.
As for
the rest
of the time,
I managed
quite well,
really.
I've
often thought
that
had I
been compelled
to live
in
the
trunk of a dead tree,
with nothing to do
but gaze up
at the patch of sky
just overhead,
I'd
have got
used to it
by
degrees.
I'd have learned
to watch
for
the passing of birds
or
drifting clouds,
as
I had come
to watch for
my lawyer's
odd neckties,
or
in another world,
to wait
patiently
till Sunday
for
a spell
of love-making
with Marie.
Well,
here,
anyhow,
I wasn't
penned
in
a hollow tree trunk.
There
were others
in the world
worse off
than I.
I remembered
it had been one
of Mother's
pet ideas --
she was
always voicing it --
that
in the long run
one gets used
to anything.
Usually,
however,
I didn't think things out
so far.
Those first months
were trying,
of course;
but the very effort
I had to make
helped me
through them.
For instance,
I
was plagued
by
the desire
for a woman --
which
was natural enough,
considering my age.
I never thought
of Marie
especially.
I was obsessed
by thoughts
of this woman
or that,
of
all the ones I'd had,
all the circumstances
under which
I'd
loved them;
so much so
that
the cell
grew crowded
with their faces,
ghosts
of my old passions.
That
unsettled me,
no doubt;
but,
at least,
it served
to kill time.
I gradually
became
quite friendly
with
the chief jailer,
who
went the rounds
with
the kitchen hands
at
mealtimes.
It was he
who brought up
the subject
of women.
"That's what
the men here
grumble about
most,"
he told me.
I said
I felt like that
myself.
"There's
something unfair
about it,"
I added,
"likehitting a man
when
he's down."
"But
that's
the whole point
of it,"
he said;
"that's why
you fellows
are
kept in prison."
"I don't follow."
"Liberty,"
he said,
"means
that.
You're
being deprived
of your liberty."
It
had never before
struck me
in that light,
but
I saw his point.
"That's true,"
I said.
"Otherwise
it wouldn't be
a punishment."
The jailer nodded.
"Yes,
you're different,
you can use
your brains.
The others can't.
Still,
those fellows
find a way out;
they do it
by themselves."
With which
remark
the jailer
left my cell.
Next day
I did
like
the others.
The lack
of
cigarettes,
too,
was
a trial.
When I
was brought
to
the prison,
they took away
my belt,
my shoelaces,
and
the contents
of my pockets,
including
my cigarettes.
Once I
had been given
a cell
to myself
I asked
to be given back,
anyhow,
the cigarettes.
Smoking
was
forbidden,
they
informed
me.
That,
perhaps,
was what got me down
the most;
in fact,
I suffered
really badly
during
the first few days.
I even
tore off
splinters
from my plank bed
and
sucked them.
All day long
I felt faint
and bilious.
It passed
my
understanding
why
I shouldn't
be allowed
even
to smoke;
it
could have
done
no one
any
harm.
Later on,
I understood
the idea behind it;
this privation,
too,
was part
of my punishment.
But,
by the time
I understood,
I'd lost
the craving,
so it had ceased
to be
a punishment.
Except for
these privations
I wasn't
too unhappy.
Yet again,
the
whole problem
was:
how
to
kill time.
After a while,
however,
once I'd learned
the
trick
of
remembering things,
I never had
a moment's boredom.
Sometimes
I would exercise
my memory
on
my bedroom
and,
starting from a corner,
make the round,
noting
every object I saw
on the way.
At first
it was over
in a minute or two.
But
each time
I repeated
the
experience,
it took
a little longer.
I made
a point
of visualizing
every piece
of furniture,
and
each article upon
or in it,
and then
every detail
of each article,
and finally
the details
of the details,
so to speak;
a tiny dent
or incrustation,
or a chipped edge,
and the exact
grain and color
of
the woodwork.
At the same time
I forced myself
to keep
my inventory
in mind
from start to finish,
in the right order
and omitting
no item.
With the result that,
after a few weeks,
I could spend hours
merely
in listing the objects
in my bedroom.
I found that
the more I thought,
the more details,
half-forgotten
or
malobserved,
floated up
from
my memory.
There seemed
no end
to them.
So I learned
that
even after
a single day's
experience
of
the
outside world
a man
could easily
live
a hundred years
in prison.
He'd have
laid up enough
memories
never
to be
bored.
Obviously,
in
one way,
this
was
a
compensation.
+++
