CAMUS DER MENSCH IN DER REVOLTE PDF

“Unsere Verbrecher sind nicht mehr jene entwaffneten Kinder, die zur Entschuldigung die Liebe anriefen. Sie sind im Gegenteil erwachsen und haben ein. Title, Der Mensch in der Revolte: Essays. Author, Albert Camus. Editor, Georges Schlocker. Publisher, Büchergilde Gutenberg, ISBN, Buy Der Mensch in der Revolte by Albert Camus, Georges Schlocker, Francois Bondy, Justus Streller (ISBN: ) from Amazon’s Book Store.

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Deutsch von Guido G. Albert Camus in Selbstzeugnisse und Bilddokumenten. For the first time in a long time I thought about Maman. Even there, in that home where lives were fading out, evening was a kind of wistful respite. So close to death, Maman must have felt free cammus and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her.

And I felt ready to live it all again too.

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As if the blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I ccamus myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself — so like a brother, really — I felt I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.

I, too, felt ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that dsr should greet me with howls of execration.

As translated by Stuart Gilbert. I don’t know why, but something inside me snapped. I started yelling at the top of my lungs, and I insulted him and told him not to waste his prayers on me. I grabbed him by inn collar of his cassock. I was pouring out on him everything that was in my heart, cries of anger and cries of joy.

Albert Camus

He seemed so certain about everything, didn’t he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman’s head. He wasn’t even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man. Whereas it looked as if I was the one who’d come up emptyhanded. But I was sure about me, about everything, surer than he could ever be, sure of my life and sure of the death Caamus had waiting for me.

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Yes, that was all I had. But at least I had as much of a hold on it as it had on me. I had been right, I was still right, I was always right.

I had lived my life one way and I could just as well have lived it another. I had done this de I hadn’t done that. I hadn’t done this thing but I had done another. It was as if I had waited all this time for this moment and for the first light of this dawn to be vindicated.

Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew why. Throughout the whole absurd life I’d lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, menxch as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was revollte.

What did other people’s deaths or a mother’s love matter to me; what did cer God or the lives people choose or the fate they think they elect matter to me when we’re all elected by the same fate, me and billions of privileged people like him who also called themselves my brothers? Couldn’t he see, couldn’t he see that? There were only privileged people. The others would all be condemned one day.

And he would be condemned, too. One might think that a period which, in a space of fifty years, uproots, enslaves, or kills seventy million human beings should be condemned out of hand.

Thomas Pölzler, Wie schlüssig ist Albert Camus’ frühe „Logik des Absurden“? – PhilPapers

But acmus culpability must still be understood In more ingenuous times, when the tyrant razed cities for his own greater glory, when the slave chained to the conqueror’s chariot was dragged through the rejoicing streets, when enemies were thrown to the wild beasts in front of the assembled people, the mind did not reel before such unabashed crimes, and the judgment remained unclouded.

But slave camps under the flag of freedom, massacres justified by philanthropy or by a taste for the superhuman, in one sense cripple judgment.

On the day when crime dons the apparel of innocence — through a curious transposition peculiar to our times — it is innocence that is called upon to justify itself. Time will prolong time, and life will serve life. In this field that is both limited and bulging with possibilities, everything to himself, except his lucidity, seems unforeseeable to him. What rule, then, could emanate from that unreasonable order?

The only truth that might seem revoltf to him is not formal: The absurd mind cannot so much expect ethical rules at the end of its reasoning as, rather, illustrations and the breath of human lives. Great feelings take with them their own universe, splendid or abject.

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They light up with their passion an exclusive world in which they recognize their climate. There is a universe of jealousy, of ambition, of selfishness or generosity. A universe — in other words a rdvolte and an attitude of mind.

The world is what it is, which is to say, nothing much. This is what everyone learned yesterday, thanks to the formidable concert of opinion coming from radios, newspapers, and information agencies. Indeed we are told, in the midst of hundreds of enthusiastic commentaries, that any average city can be wiped out by a bomb the size of a football.

American, English, and French newspapers are filled with eloquent essays on the future, the past, the inventors, mejsch cost, the peaceful incentives, the military advantages, and even the life-of-its-own character of the atom bomb.

Kategorie:Werk von Albert Camus – Wikipedia

We can sum it up in one sentence: Our technical civilization has just reached its greatest level of savagery. We will have to choose, in the more or less near future, between collective suicide and the intelligent use of our scientific conquests. Meanwhile we think there is something indecent in celebrating a discovery whose use has caused the most formidable rage of destruction ever known to man.

What will it bring to a world already given over to all the convulsions of violence, incapable of any control, indifferent to justice and the simple happiness of men — a world where science devotes itself to organized murder?

No one but the most unrelenting idealists would dare to wonder. You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth.

Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them.

I do not want to found anything on the incomprehensible. I want to know whether I can live with what I know and with that alone.

Zitate von Albert Camus. Roberto Clemente puerto-ricanischer und US-amerikanischer Baseballspieler – Pike US-amerikanischer Linguist und Anthropologe –