This garden on the other side of the window, I see that walls. And a few leaves which runs the light. More above, it still leaves. Above, is the sun. And all this jubilation of air you feel on the outside, all that joy spread to the world, I do not perceive only shadows of leaves playing on the white curtains. Five rays of sun as discharging patiently in the room a golden perfume of dried herbs. A breeze, and the shadows come alive on the curtain. A cloud cover, and then discovers the sun, and here emerges from the shadows of the bright yellow vase of mimosas. Simply: the only glimmer nascent and here I am flooded with joy confusing and bewildering.
Prisoner of the cave, here I am alone with the shadow of the world. Afternoon of January. But the cold remains at the bottom of the air. Across a film of sun cracked under the nail but that is all things of an eternal smile. Who am I and what can I do - if not enter the game of foliage and light. Be that ray of sunshine where my cigarette burns, the gentleness and quiet passion that breathes in the air. If I try to reach me is at the bottom of this light. And if I try to understand and enjoy the delicate flavor that reveals the secret of the world, it is myself that I found at the bottom of the universe. Myself, that is to say that extreme emotion deliver me from the scene. Earlier, other things and people correct me. But let me cut this minute in the fabric of time, as others leave a flower between the pages. They enclose a walk where love has touched. And I too am walking, but it's a god who caress me. Life is short and it is sin to waste time. I'm wasting my time all day and others say that I am very active. Today is a rest and my heart goes out to meet itself.
If anxiety still grips me is to feel this ethereal moment slip through my fingers like the beads of mercury. So let those who want to separate the world. I am not complaining because I look more unborn. I'm happy in this world because my kingdom is of this world. Passing cloud, and that moment fades. Death of myself to myself. The book opens to a page loved. It is bland today with the book world. Is it true that I suffered, is it not true that I suffer and that suffering myself gray because it is the sun and shadows, that heat and cold that it feels very far , at the bottom of the air. Will I wonder if something dies and if men suffer because everything is written in that window when the sky pours its fullness. I can say and I say just now that what counts is to be human, simple. No, what matters is to be true and then everything is inscribed, humanity and simplicity. And when I'm more real and more transparent than when I am the world?
Instant lovely silence. The men fell silent. But the song of the world rises and me, chained to the back of the cave, I am filled before desired. Eternity is here and I had hoped. Now I can talk. I do not know what I could wish better than this continual presence of myself to myself. This is not to be happy I want now, but just be aware. It feels cut off from the world, but simply an olive tree stands in the golden dust, just a few dazzling beaches in the morning sun, so we feel this in itself melt strength. And me. I am aware of the opportunities that I am responsible. Every minute of life carries with it the value of miracle and his face of eternal youth.
Albert Camus
Notebooks I, January 1936
Gallimard
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