The Fall
Ratings53
Average rating4
15
Ratings53
Average rating4
Mordant, brilliant, elegantly styled, The Fall is a novel Of the conscience Of modern man in the face of evil. In a seedy bar in Amsterdam, Clamence. an expatriate Frenchman, indulges in a calculated confession. He recalls his past life as a respected Parisian lawyer, a champion of noble causes, and, privately, a libertine—yet one apparently immune to judgment. As his narrative unfolds, ambiguities amass; every triumph reveals a failure, every motive a hidden treachery. The irony of his recital anticipates his downfall — and implicates us all.
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I thought this was a near masterpiece. Short, with few wasted words, but a strong and well-delivered message about the absence of innocence (or common guilt, perhaps) in any of us, told from the point of view of an unsympathetic and self-loathing (while still vain and self-admiring) narrator who speaks to an unseen listener, who can therefore be any of us. His tale is stark but somehow very real and believable, and resonated as a reflection of contemporary times despite being over 50 years old. Camus had the ability to be philosophical without using overtly philosophical methods, and I f=ind that very attractive. The character is real, feels like flesh and blood, but is also a symbol and a mouthpiece. Powerful and economical and impressive.
A punch in the stomach, much like “Notes from the underground”, by Dostoyevsky.
Un long monologue unique d'un être étant passé à côté de sa propre vie, ne vivant que pour lui même, bourré d'erreurs et d'égarements et pourtant cruellement humain (certains passages sur l'importance que l'on accorde aux morts d'amis sont d'une justesse frappante). Un homme poursuivi par son inaction, qui se glorifie dans le fait de se sentir miséricordieux envers autrui, mais au final d'une vacuité assez unique.
Si le narrateur parait par moment abject, il ne fait que nous renvoyer à beaucoup de nos erreurs en tant qu'être humain, et ce regard dans le miroir n'est pas toujours du plus plaisant.
“Je ne me suis jamais souvenu que de moi-même”
Initially, the narrative voice and its self-aggrandizing soliloquy that just happened to be directed at the reader made me want to materialize this Jean-Baptiste Clamence and give him a righteous right hook. However, this digust became fascination, as I read his fickle words, hyperbolic claims, and hypocritical dribble. I needed to know more. The mirror Camus sought to build with words instead of glass shone with my reflection, and I had not noticed, because it was not yet complete. Although not a mirror in the classical sense, it puts the perception we have of ourselves in relation with the human world into question, as it also raises quandaries about those who would fall into the classification laid out by Clamence - the judge-penitent - even if they include us.
