…For my part, I am fairly sure that I have made the choice. And, having chosen, I think that I must speak out, that I must state that I will never again be one of those, whoever they be, who compromise with murder, and that I must take the consequences of such a decision. The thing is done, and that is as far as I can go at present…. However, I want to make clear the spirit in which this article is written.
We are asked to love or to hate such and such a country and such and such a people. But some of us feel too strongly our common humanity to make such a choice. Those who really love the Russian people, in gratitude for what they have never ceased to be–that world leaven which Tolstoy and Gorky
In many lectures about 20th-century philosophy, you will hear about Albert Camus. I have always been interested in his work, and through these lectures, I know quite a lot about him, but I have never read his books. I started reading Myth of Sisyphus, and today at work, I also started listening to a good audiobook of that book on YouTube.
You might have heard of Sisyphus; he is the Greek God that had to push a giant boulder up the hill over and over. This feeling of an endless drag, of pushing that boulder up the hill over and over again, or in our case: of getting up, eating, working, eating, sleeping, and getting up again, is demoralizing. Many people feel the despair of this and seek relief from that feeling. According to Camus, we have three options: 1 believe in an improbable God not for relief now but a better life after death, 2 suicide and 3, except the futility of life and live with it.
“Of whom and of what can I say: “I know that”! This heart within me I can feel, and I judge that it exists. This world I can touch, and I likewise judge that it exists. There ends all my knowledge, and the rest is construction. For if I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, if I try to define and to summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers. I can sketch one by one all the aspects it is able to assume, all those likewise that have been attributed to it, this upbringing, this origin, this ardor or these silences, this nobility or this vileness. But aspects cannot be added up. This very heart which is mine will forever remain indefinable to me. Between the certainty I have of my existence and the content I try to give to that assurance the gap will never be filled.”