PDF Fremde Blicke. Flash Cards Kid's Courses! PDF Metaprogramming in. NET Download. Picture Lions Download. Muir ePub. Adventures S. Lovecraft ePub. PDF Vedi Download. Philosophy of Phenomena. PDF Online. Paperback —. About Happy Death In his first novel, A Happy Death, written when he was in his early twenties and retrieved from his private papers following his death in I, Albert Camus laid the foundation for The Stranger, focusing in both works on an Algerian clerk who kills a man in cold blood.
Also in Vintage International. Also by Albert Camus. Product Details. Inspired by Your Browsing History. Related Articles. This edition doesn't have a description yet. Can you add one? Previews available in: English. Add another edition? Copy and paste this code into your Wikipedia page. Need help? See what's new with book lending at the Internet Archive. A happy death.
Albert Camus. Want to Read. Mersault stared at his hands and his fingers, and childish desires rose in his heart.
Tears burst from his eyes. Inside him widened a great lake of solitude and silence above which ran the sad song of his deliverance. Mersault was alone in the overheated compartment—he had left suddenly in the middle of the night, and with the dark morning hours ahead of him, he let the mild landscape of Bohemia rush by, the impending rain between the tall silky poplars and the distant factory chimneys filling him with an impulse to burst into tears.
Then he looked at the white plaque with its three sentences: Nicht hinauslehnen, E pericoloso sporgersi, II est dangereux de se pencher au-dehors. He looked again at his hands, which lay like live, wild animals on his knees: the left one long and supple, the right thicker, muscular. He knew them, recognized them, yet they were distinct from himself, as though capable of actions in which his will had no part. One came to rest against his forehead now, pressing against the fever which throbbed in his temples.
The other slid down his jacket and took out of its pocket a cigarette that he immediately discarded as soon as he became aware of an overpowering desire to vomit. His hands returned to his knees, palms cupped, where they offered Mersault the emblem of his life, indifferent once more and offered to anyone who would take it.
He traveled for two days. But now it was not an instinct of escape which drove him on. The very monotony of the journey satisfied him. The train which was jolting him halfway across Europe suspended him between two worlds—it had taken him abroad, and would deposit him somewhere, draw him out of a life the very moment of which he wanted to erase and lead him to the threshold of a new world where desire would be king.
Not for a single moment was Mersault bored. He sat in his corner, rarely disturbed by anyone, stared at his hands, then at the countryside, and reflected. He deliberately extended his trip as far as Breslau, merely rousing himself at the border to change tickets.
He wanted to stay where he was, contemplating his freedom. He was tired and did not feel well enough to move; he hoarded every last fragment of his strength, his hopes, kneaded them together until he had refashioned himself and his fate as well.
He loved these long nights when the train rushed along the gleaming rails, roaring through the village stations where only a clock was illuminated, the sudden stops among the clustered lights of city stations where there was no time to discover where he was before the train was already swallowed up, a golden warmth cast into the compartments and then gone. The crosswork puzzle of lights and shadows went on in the compartment, a black and gold motley: Dresden, Bautzen, Gerlitz, Lugknitz.
The long lonely night ahead of him, with all the time in the world to decide on the actions of a future life, the patient straggle with the thoughts eluding him on a station siding, recaptured and pursued again, the consequences reappearing and escaping once more before the dance of wires glistening under the rain and the lights.
Mersault groped for the word, the sentence that would formulate the hope in his heart, that would resolve his anxiety. In his weakened state, he needed formulas.
The night and then the day passed in this obstinate struggle with the word, the image which from now on would constitute the whole tonality of his mind, the sympathetic or miserable dream of his future. He closed his eyes. It takes time to live.
Mersault thought about his life and exercised his bewildered consciousness and his longing for happiness in a train compartment which was like one of those cells where a man learns to know what he is by what is more than himself. On the morning of the second day, in the middle of a field, the train slowed down. Breslau was still hours away, and the day broke over the vast Silesian plain, a treeless sea of mud under an overcast sky sagging with rainclouds.
As far as the eye could see and at regular intervals, huge black birds with glistening wings flew in flocks a few yards above the ground, incapable of rising any higher under a rain-swollen sky heavy as a tombstone.
They circled in a slow, ponderous flight, and sometimes one of them would leave the flock, skim the ground, almost inseparable from it, and flap in the same lethargic flight, until it was far enough away to be silhouetted on the horizon, a black dot. Mersault wiped the steam off the glass and stared greedily through the long streaks his fingers left on the pane. Between the desolate earth and the colorless sky appeared an Image of the ungrateful world in which, for the first time, he came to himself at last.
On this earth, restored to the despair of innocence, a traveler lost in a primitive world, he regained contact, and with his list pressed to his chest, his face flattened against the glass, he calculated his hunger for himself and for the certainty of the splendors dormant within him.
Then the great impulse that had sustained him collapsed for the first time since he left Prague. Mersault pressed his tears and his lips against the cold pane.
Again the glass blurred, the landscape disappeared. A few hours later he arrived in Breslau. From a distance the city looked like a forest of factory chimneys and church steeples. At close range, it was made of brick and black stone; men in visored caps walked slowly through the streets. A boy was playing the harmonica: tune of a senti-mental stupidity which eased the soul. Mersault de-cided to travel south again, after buying a comb. The next day he was in Vienna. He slept a part of the day and the whole next night.
When he awak-ened, his fever was completely gone. He stuffed himself on soft-boiled eggs and thick cream for breakfast, and feeling a little squeamish walked out into a morning speckled with sunshine and rain. Vi-enna was a refreshing city: there was nothing to visit.
He preferred the cafes around it, and in the evening a little dancehall near the banks of the canal. During the day he strolled along the Ring, in the luxury of the shopwindows and the elegant women. He enjoyed this frivolous and expensive de-cor which divides man from himself in the least nat-ural city in the world. But the women were pretty, the flowers bright and sturdy in the gardens, and over the Ring at twilight, in the brilliant carefree crowd, Mersault stared at the futile caracole of stone horses against the red sky.
It was then that he remembered his friends Rose and Claire. For the first time since Lyons, he wrote a letter. Here in Vienna beauty has been replaced by civilization. I take walks in the Ring. And in the evening, over the theaters and the sumptuous palaces, the blind steeplechase of stone horses in the sunset fills me with a strange mixture of bitterness and delight. Mornings I eat soft-boiled eggs and thick cream. I get up late, the hotel people shower attention on me. There are lots of shows and the women are good-looking.
The only thing missing is the sun. What are you up to? Tell me about yourselves and describe the sun to a miserable wretch who has no roots anywhere and who remains your faithful Patrice Mersault That evening, having written his letter, he went back to the dancehall.
He had arranged to spend the evening with Helen, one of the hostesses who knew a little French and understood his poor German. He got up without waking her, slipped the money into her shoe. And he had made a mistake. Unfamiliar with Austrian currency, he had left a five-hundred shilling note instead of a hundred shillings. That kiss, doubtless the first she had given him spontaneously, kindled a spark of emotion in Mersault.
He made her lie down, tucked her in, walked to the door again and looked back with a smile. She opened her eyes wide above the sheet that was pulled up to her nose and let him vanish without a word. Your children would be very glad to see you again. And because of popular prejudice. If happiness appeals to you, come and try it here.
We bend our brows to your paternal kisses, Rose, Claire, Catherine P. Catherine protests against the word paternal. Catherine is living with us. If you approve, she can be your third daughter. He decided to return to Algiers by way of Genoa. As other men need to be alone before making their crucial decisions, Mersault, poisoned by solitude and alienation, needed to withdraw into friendship and confidence, to enjoy an apparent security before choosing his life.
In the train heading across northern Italy toward Genoa, he listened to the thousand voices that lured him on, the siren songs of happiness. By the time he reached the first cypresses, springing straight up from the naked soil, he had yielded.
He still felt weak, feverish. But something in him had relented. Soon, as the sun advanced through the day and the sea drew closer, under a broad sky pouring light and air over the shivering olive trees, the exultation which stirred the world joined the enthusiasms of his own heart. The noise of the train, the chatter in the crowded compartment, everything that laughed and sang around him kept time to a kind of inner dance which projected him, sitting motionless hour after hour, to the ends of the earth and at last released him, jubilant and speechless, into the deafening bustle of Genoa, the brilliant harbor echoing the brilliant sky, where desire and indolence struggled against each other until dark.
He was thirsty, hungry for love, eager for pleasure. The gods who burned within him cast him into the sea, on a tiny beach at one end of the harbor, where the water tasted of salt and tar and he swam until he forgot his own body. He walked along a road overlooking the entire city, and the flickering fragrant sea rose toward him in one long, irresistible swell. Closing his eyes, Mersault gripped the warm stone he sat on, opening them again to stare at this city where sheer excess of life flaunted its exultant bad taste.
At noon he would sit on the ramp leading down to the harbor and watch the women walking up from the offices on the docks. Evenings, he would see the same women in the streets and follow them, the ardent animal coiled in his loins stirring with a fierce delight.
For two days he smoldered in this inhuman exultation. On the third day he left Genoa for Algiers. All during the crossing, staring at the water and the light on the water, first in the morning, then in the middle of the day, and then in the evening, he matched his heart against the slow pulse of the sky, and returned to himself. He scorned the vulgarity of certain cures. Stretched out on the deck, he real- ized that there could be no question of sleeping but that he must stay awake, must remain conscious despite friends, despite the comfort of body and soul.
He had to create his happiness and his justification. And doubtless the task would be easier for him now. At the strange peace that filled him as he watched the evening suddenly freshening upon the sea, the first star slowly hardening in the sky where the light died out green to be reborn yellow, he realized that after this great tumult and this fury, what was dark and wrong within him was gone now, yielding to the clear water, transparent now, of a soul restored to kindness, to resolution.
He understood. And he was not made for love. All his life—the office on the docks, his room and his nights of sleep there, the restaurant he went to, his mistress—he had pursued single-mindedly a happiness which in his heart he believed was impossible.
In this he was no different from everyone else. He had played at wanting to be happy. Never had he sought happiness with a conscious and deliberate desire. Never until the day … And from that moment on, because of a single act calculated in utter lucidity, his life had changed and happiness seemed possible. Doubtless he had given birth to this new being in suffering—but what was that suffering compared to the degrading farce he had performed till now?
He saw, for instance, hat what had attached him to Marthe was vanity, not love. Even that miracle of the lips she offered him was nothing more than the delighted astonishment of a power acknowledged and awakened by the conquest.
The meaning of his affair with Marthe consisted of the replacement of that initial astonishment by a certainty, the triumph of vanity over modesty. What he loved in her was his power and his ambition to live. Even his desire, the deepest craving of his flesh, probably derived from this initial astonishment at possessing a lovely body, at mastering and humiliating it.
Now he knew he was not made for such love, but for the innocent and terrible love of the dark god he would henceforth serve. As often happens, what was best in his life had crystallized around what was worst. Claire and her friends, Zagreus and his will to happiness had all crystallized around Marthe. He knew now that it was his own will to happiness which must make the next move. But if it was to do so, he realized that he must come to terms with time, that to have time was at once the most magnificent and the most dangerous of experiments.
Idleness is fatal only to the mediocre. Most men cannot even prove they are note mediocre. He had won that right. But the proof re-mained to be shown, the risk to be run. Only one thing had changed. He felt free of his past, and of what he had lost.
To lick the life like barley sugar, to shape it, sharpen it, love it at last—that was his whole passion. This presence of himself to himself— henceforth his effort would be to maintain it in the face of everything in his life, even at the cost of a solitude he knew now was so difficult to endure. He would not submit. All his violence would help him now, and at the point to which it raised him, his love would join him, like a furious passion to live.
The sky filled with stars. And Mersault, in silence, felt in himself extreme and violent powers to love, to marvel at this life with its countenance of sunlight and tears, this life in its salt and hot stone—it seemed that by caressing this life, all his powers of love and despair would unite.
That was his poverty, that was his sole wealth. As if by writing zero, he was starting over but with a consciousness of his powers and a lucid intoxication which urged him on in the face of his fate. Then Mersault realized that not once since Vienna had he thought of Zagreus as the man he had killed with his own hands. He recognized in himself that power to forget which only children have, and geniuses, and the innocent.
Innocent, overwhelmed by joy, he understood at last that he was made for happiness. They are eating salted tomatoes, potato salad, honey, and huge amounts of fruit. They keep the peaches on ice, and lick the tiny drops which have congealed on the velvety skins. They also make grape juice, which they drink with their faces tipped toward the sun in order to get a tan—at least the Boy does, for he knows a suntan becomes him. She licked his arm. Catherine sprawled on her stomach and pulled her bathing suit down to her hips.
The sun streamed down, lingering over his face. The moist pores absorbed this fire which sheathed his body and put him to sleep. The house perched on a hilltop with a view of the bay.
It was known in the neighborhood as the House of the Three Students. A steep path led up to it, beginning in olive trees and ending in olive trees. Between, a kind of landing followed a gray wall covered with obscene figures and political slogans to encourage the winded visitor.
Then more olive trees, blue patches of sky between the branches, and the smell of the gum trees bordering reddish fields in which purple-yellow and orange cloths were spread out to dry. After a great deal of sweating and panting, the visitor pushed open a little blue gate, avoiding the bougainvillea tendrils, and then climbed a stairway steep as a ladder but drenched in a blue shade that already slaked his thirst.
From the perfect curve of the bay far below, a nameless energy gathered up the weeds, the grass, and the sun, swept on the pines and the cypresses, the dusty olive trees and the eucalyptus to the very walls of the house. Depending on the season, white dog roses and mimosa bloomed at the heart of this offering, or the kind of honeysuckle that spreads its fragrance over the walls on summer nights.
White sheets and red roofs, the sea smiling under a sky pinned without a wrinkle from one edge of the horizon to the other—the House above the World trained its huge bay windows on a carnival of colors and lights, day and night. But in the distance, a line of high purple mountains joined the bay and its extreme slope and contained this intoxication within its far contour. Here no one complained of the steep path or of exhaustion.
Everyone had his joy to conquer, every day. Living above the world, each discovering his own weight, seeing his face brighten and darken with the day, the night, each of the four inhabitants of the house was aware of a presence that was at once a judge and a justification among them.
The world, here, became a personage, counted among those from whom advice is gladly taken, those in whom equilibrium has not killed love. She had a sluggish, toast-colored, deliberate body and an animal instinct for what is essential.
No one could decipher better than Catherine the secret language of trees, of the sea, of the wind. The world leaves them intact. Rose, Claire, Catherine, and Patrice lived, at the windows of their house, on images and appearances, consented to a kind of game they played with each other, receiving with laughter, friendship, and affection alike, but returning to the dance of sea and sky, rediscovered the secret color of their fate and finally confronted the deepest part of themselves.
Sometimes the cats came to join their masters. Gula would creep out, perpetually offended, a black question mark with green eyes, slender and delicate, suddenly seized by a fit of madness and pouncing on shadows. Claire preferred Cali, the other cat, as gentle and stupid as his dirty white fur, who let himself be teased for hours at a time. And Claire, her Florentine face intent, would feel her soul swell within her. Silent and withdrawn, she was given to sudden outbursts, and had a splendid appetite.
A lovely creature is not entitled to grow ugly. Eat, Claire darling. They laughed, teased each other, made plans. Everyone smiled at appearances and pretended to submit to them. Patrice proceeded from the face of the world to the grave and smiling faces of the young women. Sometimes he was amazed by this universe they had created around him. Friendship and trust, sun and white houses, scarcely heeded nuances, here felicities were born intact, and he could measure their precise resonance.
The House above the World, they said among themselves, was not a house of pleasure, it was a house of happiness. Patrice knew it was true when night fell and they all accepted, with the last breeze on their faces, the human and dangerous temptation to be utterly unique.
Today, after the sunbath, Catherine had gone to her office. Catherine comes to the table duly late, drunk with the sun, and plaintive, her eyes pale with sleep. There is not enough vitriol in her soul to do justice to her office—eight hours she subtracts from the world and her life to give to a typewriter. The girls understand, thinking of what their own lives would be with those eight hours amputated.
Patrice says nothing. Besides, you talk about that office of yours every day. But soon everyone joins her there. It enters into the movement of the harbor, incorporates itself into the course of the world, and, suddenly abandoning its frivolities, sheers off and dives down to the sea, landing in a tremendous explosion of blue and white water. Gula and Cali lie on their sides, their tiny adder-mouths showing the pink of their palates, their bodies throbbing with lustful and obscene dreams.
The sky releases its burden of sun and color. Eyes closed, Catherine takes the long fall that carries her deep into herself, down where some animal stirs gently, breathing like a god. The next Sunday, guests have been invited. Hence Rose has peeled the vegetables, set the table; Claire will put the vegetables in the pots and watch over the cooking reading in her room, occasionally emerging to glance under the lids.
Since Mina, the Arab girl, has not come this morning, having lost her father for the third time this year, Rose has also cleaned the house. The first guest arrives: Eliane, whom Mer-sault calls the Idealist. But her room is lined with reproductions of The Man with a Glove. Eliane and Noel, doubtless too winded to express their disgust, decide to take a seat no one has dreamed of offering them.
Claire arrives, friendly and languorous, shakes hands and tastes the bouillabaisse simmering on the stove. She decides they can start. But today Patrice is late. The hot season is just beginning, but already the firm bodies are beginning to be revealed by the light dresses—hence Patrice, as he testifies, is left in a devastated state, mouth dry, temples throbbing, loins hot.
This insistence on detail silences Eliane. At table, a general consternation follows the first spoonfuls of bouillabaisse.
Then, to test those manners, Rose asks him to purchase for the household a certain number of useful items such as a hot-water heater, Persian carpets, and a refrigerator. With the coffee, Eliane bravely changes the subject to love. If she were in love, she would get married.
Noel, who thinks in shapes and in clay, believes in Women, in children, and in the patriarchal truth of a concrete and sensuous life.
Nonetheless, Rose, who does her good deeds in secret, speaks affectionately to Eliane. The others are on the couch. There is a heavy mist over the city and the harbor, but the tugboats go about their work, and their deep hoots rise to the house on gusts of tar and fish, the world of black and red hulls, of rusty anchors and chains sticky with seaweed wakening down below.
He is very fond of Eliane, and afraid he has hurt her feelings just now. But he understands Rose and her thirst for happiness. Rose closes her eyes. Everyone muses, between the long calls of the tugboats. The heat presses on her eyes and immerses her in a silence inhabited by the throbbing of her own blood.
The cats sleep for days at a time and make love from the first star until dawn. Their pleasures are fierce, and their sleep impenetrable.
And they know that the body has a soul in which the soul has no part. When he had said that the women in the streets were pretty, he meant that one woman in particular was pretty.
A week before they had gone out together, and having nothing to do, had strolled along the harbor boulevards, all one fine hot morning. Lucienne had not opened her mouth, and as he walked her home Mersault was startled to find himself squeezing her hand a long time and smiling at her. She was quite tall and was wearing no hat—only a white linen dress and sandals.
On the boulevards they had walked into a slight breeze, and Lucienne set her feet flat on the warm cobbles, bracing herself with each step against the wind.
As she did so, her dress became pasted against her body, outlining her smooth, curving belly. With her blond hair pulled back, her small straight nose, and the splendid thrust of her breasts, she represented and even sanctioned a kind of secret agreement which linked her to the earth and organized the world around her movements. As her bag swayed from her right wrist and a silver bracelet tinkled against its clasp, she raised her left hand over her head to protect herself from the sun; the tip of her right foot was still on the earth but was about to take off—and at that moment she seemed to Patrice to wed her gestures to the world.
But all the same, there was something in their respective strides, which were similar in both length and flexibility. There is something divine in mindless beauty, and Mersault was particularly responsive to it. Until then what moved him had been her way of clinging to his clothes, of following him, of taking his arm—her abandonment and her trust that touched him as a man.
Her silence, too, by which she put all of herself into each momentary gesture and emphasized her resemblance to the cats, a resemblance to which she already owed the gravity characterizing all her actions. Yesterday, after dinner, they had strolled together on the docks. In the darkness, he felt under his ringers the cool prominent cheekbones and the warm lips which opened under his pressure.
Then there was something like a great cry within him, gratuitous yet ardent. From the starry night and the city that was like a spilled sky, swollen with human lights under the warm, deep breeze that rose from the harbor, he drew the thirst of this warm spring, the limitless longing to seize from these vibrant lips all the mean-ing of that inhuman and dormant world, like a si- lence enclosed in her mouth.
He bent over her, and it was as if he had rested his lips on a bird. Lucienne moaned. He nibbled her lips, and sucked in that warmth which transported him as if he had embraced the world in his arms. And she clung to him like a drowning girl, rising again and again from the depth into which she had sunk, drew back and then offered him her lips again, falling once more into the cold abyss that enfolded her like a divine oblivion.
A long after-noon of silence and reflection lay ahead of Mersault in his room. At dinner, no one spoke. But by mutual consent they went out onto the terrace. The days always ended by melting into the days: from the morning above the harbor, glistening with sun and mist, to the mildness of the evening above the harbor.
Day broke over the sea and the sun set behind the hills, for the sky showed only the one road, passing from the sea to the hills. The world says only one thing, it wakens, then it wearies. But there always comes a time when it vanquishes by mere repetition and gains the reward of its own perseverance. Thus the days of the House above the World, woven of that luxuriant fabric of laughter and simple acts, ended on the terrace under the star-studded night.
Rose and Claire and Patrice stretched out on the deckchairs, Catherine sat on the parapet. In the sky, night showed them its shining face, radiant and secret. Lights passed far below in the harbor, and the screech of trains occasionally reached them. The stars swelled, then shrank, vanished and were reborn, drawing evanescent figures, creating new ones moment by moment.
In the silence, the night recovered its density, its flesh. Filled with twinkling stars, it left in their eyes the play of lights that tears can bring. Catherine, suddenly choked with love, could only sigh. Facing everything noble and elementary in the world, she united her life with her longing for life, identified her hopes with the movement of the stars. A star fell. Behind it a distant beacon broadened in the night that was deeper now.
Some men were climbing up the path in silence.See more about this book on Archive. This edition doesn't have a description yet. Can you add one? Previews available in: A happy death albert camus free pdf download. Add another edition? Copy and paste this code into your Wikipedia page. Need help? See what's new with book lending at the Internet Archive. A happy death. Albert Camus. Want to Read. Download for print-disabled. Check nearby libraries Library. Share this book Facebook. Last edited by Clean Up Bot. July 1, History. An edition of A Happy Death Mort heureuse This edition published in by Vintage A happy death albert camus free pdf download in New York. Download A Happy Death by Albert Camus in PDF EPUB format complete free. Brief Summary of Book: A Happy Death by Albert Camus. Here is. In his first novel, A Happy Death, written when he was in his early twenties and retrieved Download and Read Free Online A Happy Death Albert Camus A Happy Death by Albert Camus Free PDF d0wnl0ad, audio books, books to read,. Albert,Camus".,extension pdf" free, A. spacesdoneright.com spacesdoneright.com Camus, Box" spacesdoneright.com"flipkart"spacesdoneright.com2.", verified download,A Happy Death "by",. Free Download Ebooks PDF Kindle A Happy Death: Cahiers Albert Camus PDF - spacesdoneright.com by . bergren god gave us easter brdbk hardcover - by. A Happy Death (original title La mort heureuse) was the first novel by French writer-philosopher Albert Camus. The existentialist topic of the book is the "will to. A Happy Death by Albert Camus. A Happy A Happy Death Albert Camus ebook. Page: A Happy Death pdf epub djvu free download. A Happy Death (Mort heureuse) by Albert Camus, , Vintage Books edition, in English. Download for print-disabled. Check nearby Share this book. In his first novel, A Happy Death, written when he was in his early twenties and retrieved from his private papers following his death in I, Albert. A Happy Death - Albert spacesdoneright.com - Google Drive. Exploring themes that preoccupied Albert Camus--absurdity, silence, revolt, fidelity, and moderation--Robert Zaretsky portrays a moralist who refused to be fooled by the nobler names we assign to our actions, and who pushed himself, and those about him, to challenge the status quo. French: Gallimard English: Knopf. Some of the techniques listed in The Plague may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them. Sartre embraced violence as a path to change and Camus sharply opposed it, leading to a bitter and very public falling out in The Meursault Investigation. The conversation between the four voices, an intricately woven semantic circus, traverses boxedness, love and the more ridiculous areas of metaphysical speculation. Glenn W. For if A Happy Death is the study of a rule-bound being shattering the fetters of his existence, it is also a remarkably candid portrait of its author as a young man. Her work as a grief counselor and hospice volunteer has given Ingram a unique view of our last journey, all of which, along with extensive research, she has brought to this guide. As the novel follows the protagonist, Patrice Mersault, to his victim's house -- and then, fleeing, in a journey that takes him through stages of exile, hedonism, privation, and death -it gives us a glimpse into the imagination of one of the great writers of the twentieth century. The first edition of the novel was published in , and was written by Albert Camus. Decades after his death, Albert Camus — is still regarded as one of the most influential and fascinating intellectuals of the twentieth century.