homework

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Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus”

1942

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence

the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no

more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to

another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no

contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the

underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their

secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that

disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about

it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial

thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld.

Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his

deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her

conqueror.

It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her

to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the

underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from

Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the

face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go

back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years

more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of

the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching

him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.

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. As for

this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it,

and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against

the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with

arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his

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long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then

Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will

have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.

It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones

is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward

the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns

as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he

leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is

stronger than his rock.

If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if

at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his

life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments

when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows

the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The

lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate

that can not be surmounted by scorn.

If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is

not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the

beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness

becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory,

this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of

Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset

obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the

same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the

cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced

age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like

Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms

modern heroism.

One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!-

-by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two

sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness

necessarily springs from the absurd. discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd

springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It

echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted.

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It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for

futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.

All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing

Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the

universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up.

Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price

of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man

says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher

destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest,

he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances

backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he

contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined

under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human

origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is

still on the go. The rock is still rolling.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus

teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is

well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each

atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The

struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus

happy.