The Works of Albert Camus

 On the Artistry of Albert Camus 

Albert Camus describes the human condition as he peers into a sort of menagerie or French garden where mankind tends the garden as imaginative creators of history. In the garden, we are a unifying and beautiful force for goodness, where hopeful escapism only risks distracting us from our work, which is to draw chaos into geometric order. Camus describes this process in the following: “There is not one human being who, above a certain elementary level of consciousness, does not exhaust himself in trying to find formulas or attitudes that will give his existence the unity it lacks”. For Albert Camus, imaginative reflection upon experience is and ought to be the source of human history. Later, he writes, “History may perhaps have an end; but our task is not to terminate it but to create it, in the image of what we henceforth know to be true”. And he says this task is beautiful: “The procedure of beauty, which is to contest reality while endowing it with unity, is also the procedure of rebellion”.

Early on in my readings, I didn’t recognize the beauty he was pointing us to because I was finding flaws in his reasoning in various places. I wanted to point-out hypocrisy and bad premises in Camus’ philosophy (for example, his premise that man makes his own meaning). After more reading and much more reflection, I’ve come to believe it plausible, however, that he was in fact entirely aware of his own artificiality in presuming the premises that deny transcendence and assert an almost total power of the human imagination in creating meaning. 

In this essay, I’ll consider what I thought were the problems with Camus’ reasoning that were stumbling blocks to considering him insightful or as someone alongside whom I ought to be traveling. Then, I will conclude by describing how I overcame these objections. Camus' philosophy, which I initially considered hopelessly flawed, reveals its coherence and beauty when understood as an aesthetic and creative rebellion against the indifference in the universe. 

One of the first problems I encountered with Camus’ reasoning wasn’t an argument he was making; I was simply confused by his character, Meursault, in The Stranger because I didn’t know how to categorize him. I suspected that Camus had unwittingly made a caricature of an existentialist character by reducing an "existence precedes essence" philosophy (i.e., a common existentialism) to something like a "sensuality precedes thoughtfulness" philosophy (i.e., shallowness). It was strange, I thought, that such a brilliant writer should build a philosophy or worldview on a twisted and inhuman character; there was nothing to grab hold of and reduce to principles of a system or framework. This wasn’t good philosophy! 

To give a brief portrait: the protagonist, Meursault, lives as an aesthete. He won't be moved by the world of ideas in the way he's moved by physical things—and by ideas, I mean those that sort of sublimate from experiences, not dead-letter concepts. Meursault doesn't have any of these for a metaphysical grounding or epistemological starting point; he is a total anti-idealist, anti-essentialist, anti-foundationalist. In this key passage, he is driven to action not by ideas but by the elements bearing down on him: "The sun was starting to burn my cheeks, and I could feel drops of sweat gathering in my eyebrows. It was the same sun as the day I’d buried Maman, and like then, my forehead especially was hurting me, all the veins in it throbbing under the skin". 

So, as I read The Stranger, I wanted to charge its author with being something like a liar's version of an honest man, for asserting what the dishonest wager is true about everyone at all, namely, that each of us is nothing more than a passive series of mental states. For example, Meursault says, “Then he asked me if I wasn't interested in a change of life. I said that people never change their lives, that in any case one life was as good as another,” which to me sounded like the impoverished and dishonest philosophy of a shallow soul. 

But I also thought of the painter Joaquin Sorolla, who was known for describing his scenes primarily with light and shadows–and, in retrospect, it should perhaps have been a clue that I was beginning to think in the right categories to have a painter come to mind. At any rate, not yet having reached this understanding of Camus as an artist, I eventually did make some progress to that end and concluded that Meursault’s artificiality or shallowness is not evidence of hypocrisy in the author but just the opposite. Meursault may be something like a Sorolla figure—but so what? He is not meant to be a philosopher.  

After reading more of Albert Camus’ work, I came to understand that he did not intend to be a philosopher either. He was, in fact, a rebel against the sort of mechanical, analytic philosophy that was more reductive than a worldview constructed with only the shapes we make with light and shadow, because the former is a highly processed and therefore artificial lens through which philosophers see the world, whereas the latter reflects the raw experiences before they’re worked into whatever philosophic system. 

Camus paints a world of experience without meaning that is hard to interpret in a way that would cohere with any philosophic system–and that is intentional; experience prior to interpretation is indeed raw, and it is meaningless. It is meaningless and it is indifferent. If it’s not meaningless, then what is its meaning? The only answers we can give to such a question would draw from highly processed ideas and would not be reflections of life prior to such reflections. 

I am grateful to discover that Albert Camus’ embrace of rebellion against an indifferent universe is not a naive assertion of meaning. Instead, he responds with a deliberate act of creation, one that ties aesthetic beauty to metaphysical defiance. This is the process I described earlier as being akin to work in a French garden, requiring the full engagement of the artistic imagination, which actively responds to chaos, defiantly ordering the world to demonstrate human dignity. Meursault in The Stranger cuts a figure of the purely sensual existence in order to serve as the photonegative of the "good and honest man"; I believe Camus does this intentionally as an artistic contrast rather than a model to emulate. Camus is giving us this artificiality on purpose. Meursault is not the absurd man but a cautionary figure who fails to move beyond sensuality into the creative rebellion Camus extols. 

Another roadblock for me arose at this point, and this one did have to do with Camus’ reasoning. I mentioned Camus’ rebellion—his act of defiance in the face of an indifferent universe—as a creative act. But isn’t Camus begging the question of the universe’s indifference (i.e., assuming that it is without any evidence of that being the case)? In his essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, for example, couldn’t he just as well conclude that by imagining Sisyphus happy, we get an insight into and an experience of the manner in which meaningfulness is indeed available in our lives? In other words, it seems as though Camus could just as well posit this act of rebellion as the natural and available way that we’re given to find true and real meaning in the universe. If we are the meaning-makers, and we are part of the universe, then surely the universe is not void of meaning. If we can imagine Sisyphus finding joy in his task, this could suggest that meaning is intrinsic to the human experience, not merely an act of defiance. 

Elsewhere, I encountered another intellectual roadblock when Camus wrote, “Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined”. Yet he is in the middle of saying that suicide is a thoughtless, ignorant flight from the light by which we are said to be lucid, rational creatures. Which is it: Are we suicidal because we are thoughtless, or because we are undermined by thinking? Moreover, any reference to lucidity is an affirmation of an ultimate rationality that one can grasp by the light we are referring to with “lucidity”—whether that be the light of reason or a light from some transcendent source. So, at this point, it looked to me that Camus was a little confused—that he wanted to have his light and occlude it, too. How positively absurd! 

Instead of trying to resolve the apparent contradiction in this reasoning, it may be better now to invoke the notion of absurdity in order to show that perhaps resolving every contradiction is a fool’s errand anyway. The absurd, for Camus, is a phenomenon that resides in the confrontation between man who strives for reason and the chaotic, indifferent universe in which he resides. Frankly, I must show my cards and admit that I do not believe the universe is indifferent because I do not believe it is made with indifference. Nevertheless, although I may not believe every conclusion Camus draws from his experience of a perceived absurdity, it is in fact true that we are alienated by the chaos we experience. I affirm, in other words, that we may very aptly describe our experience as that of pilgrims in a world that seems bent on shipwrecking us; we are lovers of reason and wisdom in a chaotic and foolish world, “red in tooth and claw,” as Tennyson described it. 

This is only a small taste, however, of my defense of Albert Camus. There are still a few items on my list of errors to cover for the sake of forthrightness and to make the strongest case against him being any kind of consistent, reasonable, serious philosopher. In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus champions the absurd man as one who rejects the comfort of meaning and embraces the lack of inherent purpose in the universe. He writes, “Let us insist again on the method: it is a matter of persisting. At a certain point on his path the absurd man is tempted. History is not lacking in either religions or prophets, even without gods. He is asked to leap. All he can reply is that he doesn't fully understand, that it is not obvious. Indeed, he does not want to do anything but what he fully understands”.

Here again, Camus undercuts his own thesis by revealing that the heroic absurd man wants to comprehend life in its entirety before he is willing to grant it any meaning at all. This figure paradoxically relies on a form of understanding to justify his stance. The absurd hero insists on only acting on what he fully comprehends, which implies a desire for a form of rationality or clarity that seems at odds with the chaotic, irrational nature of the universe he confronts. By refusing to leap into faith or accept transcendent meanings, the absurd man still makes an implicit judgment about the universe—that it lacks a clear, comprehensible meaning. The absurd man denies overarching meaning yet demands enough understanding to navigate his defiance against the absurd. This reliance on some form of light or comprehension undercuts the purity of his rebellion, as it seems to lean on the very rationality and meaning he ostensibly rejects. 

As a matter of fact, everything seems to be a matter of intellect for Camus, as melodramatic as he is in his philosophical ponderings. For example: “If I were a tree among trees, a cat among animals, this life would have a meaning, or rather this problem would not arise, for I should belong to this world. I should be this world to which I am now opposed by my whole consciousness and my whole insistence upon familiarity. This ridiculous reason is what sets me in opposition to all creation. I cannot cross it out with a stroke of the pen. What I believe to be true I must therefore preserve. What seems to me so obvious, even against me, I must support. And what constitutes the basis of that conflict, of that break between the world and my mind, but the awareness of it? If therefore I want to preserve it, I can through a constant awareness, ever revived, ever alert”.

By piecing-together (without systematizing) his understanding of his place in the world based on personal experiences and emotional responses, he effectively pits unlike things against each other: his subjective feelings against the objective framework of metaphysical realism. This inconsistency means he’s creating an artificial conflict between his aesthetic experience and metaphysics, where, in reality, they don’t meet. By refusing to confront realism on metaphysical grounds and instead opposing it emotionally, he lacks a coherent basis to refute realism, leading to a mismatch within his philosophy that cannot sustain itself against a realist critique. 

In any case, Albert Camus’ interpretation of his experiences as exemplified in his writings have an opposite effect on me than what was perhaps intended. I suspect he intended for the reader to identify with his affirmations of a life composed of impressions from without more essentially than one composed of the reflections upon those impressions, but this way of thinking does not resonate with me. Fleetingness, evanescence, and sensuality disconnected from reflective thought remind me more of death and absence than they do of living. Even if I wanted to accept Camus's view, I couldn’t—not because of moral reservations, but because I cannot grasp what he means by a life completely detached from hope, transcendence, and love that connect us to something beyond death and perishable things. I’m not just decrying hopelessness or baldly asserting its identity with despair—something Camus denies. I’m specifically pointing out that he is using the word "life" to define what I would consider death or something worse than death. The more fleeting pleasures I experience and the greater their collection in my history, the more they present themselves to my mind as little deaths rather than as what adds up to a life. They are more definitively experiences of transience and loss than they are short bursts of vitality. 

To summarize, my stumbling blocks for Camus’ way of thinking were numerous: Meursault’s inhuman shallowness as a protagonist, Camus’ assumption of the universe’s indifference, his contradictory statements about lucidity and suicide, and the artificial conflict he creates between subjective experience and metaphysical realism. These issues, as I initially saw them, seemed insurmountable and left me questioning the coherence of his philosophy. But as I delved deeper into his works and allowed myself to engage with them on their own terms rather than imposing a strictly philosophical lens, my understanding began to shift. I realized that the core of Camus’ project might not lie in building a robust metaphysical system but in presenting a vivid, aesthetic exploration of the human condition. His contradictions, far from being oversights, might serve as deliberate provocations, drawing us into the tension between reason and absurdity, logic and rebellion, despair and defiance. As I said at the start,  Camus advocates an aesthetic and creative rebellion against the indifference in the universe. The preposition, “in,” makes all the difference, as this is not a philosophical claim about the essential nature of the universe. 

Now I will build the case for Camus’ thought that has led me to tentatively, provisionally, empathize with his vision of life. I will reframe the problems I’ve just presented in light of my discovery that Albert Camus was, above all, an artist. This revelation reframes my objections not as failures of philosophical rigor but as intentional choices reflecting his artistic ethos. Camus does not seek to resolve the chaos of existence through airtight arguments or metaphysical constructs; rather, he embraces it as a canvas for creative rebellion. His art is not in asserting truths but in evoking the raw and fragmented beauty of human existence amid its absurdity. 

I should begin my defense by admitting an error in judgment. I initially believed Camus erred in prioritizing intellect over heart and in despairing at his own self-justification as a creature in creation who doesn’t belong. Yet now I see that his estrangement from belonging is not a flaw but an integral element of his artistic and philosophical stance. Camus does not belong in the metaphysical systems of old because he has intentionally rejected them. His work does not attempt to reconcile humanity with an indifferent universe through faith or reason; instead, it confronts the abyss with a stark and unyielding gaze, creating beauty out of defiance. He does not cut his heart out so much as expose its wounds, asking us to feel, to rebel, to create alongside him. 

This realization marked a turning point: Camus does not seek to defend himself against realist critiques or construct unassailable arguments. Instead, his rebellion is rooted in an artistic and existential ethos, rejecting metaphysical systems in favor of imaginative engagement with the absurd. Instead, Albert Camus is an artist, and his project is aesthetic as much as it is philosophical. How could I have not seen this before? His works are lightbox representations of life as he experiences it—shaped by shadow and illumination, by the interplay of despair and hope. 

Revisiting my first problem, Meursault’s shallowness as a protagonist, I now see him not as a failed philosophical exemplar but as a deliberate artistic construct. Meursault’s anti-idealism and lack of metaphysical grounding are not meant to inspire emulation but to provoke reflection. He is a cautionary figure, a photonegative of the "good and honest man," whose sensuality and detachment highlight the necessity of the creative rebellion Camus champions. Similarly, Camus’ assumption of indifference, his contradictions about lucidity, and his aesthetic opposition to realism are not flaws in his reasoning but expressions of his artistic vision. They compel us to grapple with the absurd, to acknowledge the tension without resolving it, and to find meaning not in the cosmos but in our defiant response to it. 

Finally, I concur with Albert Camus that “no art can completely reject reality”. The French garden, my metaphor for the human endeavor to impose order on chaos, is not a rejection of reality but an imaginative engagement with it. It is not pure artifice but a testament to the human capacity to create beauty even in the face of meaninglessness. When we invoke metaphysical terms like hope or love, we risk imposing an external framework on the rawness of lived experience, something Camus eschews. Instead, he invites us to participate in an act of creation that does not impose but responds—an act that, in its refusal to leap into transcendence or despair, affirms the brilliance and dignity of the human spirit.