Customer Reviews

The Fall (Twentieth Century Classics S.)

5 star:		(65)
4 star:		(21)
3 star:		(16)
2 star:		(5)
1 star:		(4)

 

 

Soon after publishing The Fall, Albert Camus won the Nobel Prize for Literature. On the strength of this book alone, he deserved it. As a novel, The Fall improves upon its two predecessors, The Stranger and The Plague, in almost every way. The writing itself is much more confident, full of scathing wit and eloquent outrage. The intertwining of artistic aim and philosophical conviction is utterly seamless. Neither is compromised, as they were at times in the earlier works. Rather, both art and philosophy are employed here to serve the STORY. In short, The Fall delivers on what Camus had always promised- a masterful work of literature that also FORCES the reader to examine his/her life.

Jean-Baptiste Clamence is a "good guy." He uses his abilities as a lawyer to protect the poor and weak. When asked, he helps blind people across the street. Wherever one finds a righteous cause, he appears to support it. He is a well-respected member of the community. Could one truly find SERIOUS fault with such a person?

Well, as of late, Clamence has had a slight problem: he has felt the need to be honest, both with others and himself. The truth often leads people to strange places, and so Clamence, formerly rich and recently disgraced, finds himself at a sailors' bar in Amsterdam. Here, he finally comes clean about his life and his actions (one and the same, possibly?). He's no criminal, surely not, or not the WORST kind anyway. His crime is much more insidious, and it consists of what we are all guilty of: he is two-faced. His purest acts of selflessness are actually forms of self-deception, for they mask that in the end, he is really satisfying himself. The purest altruism hides a secret loathing of those he "helps"; the deepest, most self-sacrificial love conceals a seething desire to dominate.

In this dingy bar, Clamence unburdens himself, not just of his "crimes," but of the author's (catch the quote at the beginning of the book) and humanity's too. Only a strong (and dishonest) reader can finish this book without cringing in self-recognition at the daily hypocrisies that add up to the modern human condition. Camus does not necessarily counsel despair though. At different points in The Fall, one can see the ever-present potential of humanity to better itself. What Camus does doubt though is the general willingness of people (himself included) to make the personal choices needed to truly bring ABOUT this "betterment."

The Fall is not entirely bleak reading. In several places, it is laugh-out-loud funny (No! Surely not sober Camus...), displaying the humour of a barroom Voltaire. Moreover, few could fail to delight in the sheer craft and elegance of the author's prose. Still, the book does raise searing questions about how to live (or waste) one's life. If one has been "sleepwalking" before reading The Fall, it will be almost impossible to do afterwards. Wake up with this brilliant, unsparing slap in the collective face of mankind (including me....)!

(Note to above confused reviewer: the book is written in the SECOND PERSON.)

Barely more than a hundred pages, "The Fall" represents Albert Camus' ultimate foray into the recesses of psychic anguish. Jean-Baptiste Clamence, a once-respected and successful Paris barrister, sits alone in an Amsterdam bar delivering his stark monologue to an unknown listener. It is a confessional narrative, a tale in which Clamence slowly unravels the spare facts of his life, his deceptions, his inauthenticity, his bad faith.

As he sits in the dimly lit bar, Clamence makes the locus of his telling a metaphor for the narrative to follow: "We are at the heart of things here. Have you noticed that Amsterdam's concentric canals resemble the circles of hell? The middle-class hell, of course, peopled with bad dreams. When one comes from the outside, as one gradually goes throught those circles, life-and hence its crimes-becomes denser, darker. Here we are in the last circle." It is a metaphor that resonates with existential imagery, reminiscent of Sartre's claim, in "No Exit", that "hell is other people." From this grim place, Camus writes a classic of Existentialist literature, building on this metaphor, writing an extended trope of unremitting self-examination, self-doubt and anguish.

Clamence was, by all outward appearances, both a virtuous and a modest man. His courtesy was famous and beyond question. He was generous in public and private, literally exulting at the approach of a beggar. He helped the blind man cross the street and the indigent defendant secure a reduced sentence. He ended his afternoons at the café with "a brilliant improvisation in the company of several friends on the hard-heartedness of our governing class and the hypocrisy of our leaders."

But appearances give lie to the truth, for the truth in "The Fall" is that life has no meaning, that it is full of ennui, and that people act unthinkingly, inauthentically, habitually. Thus, Clamence reflects on a man he knew, a man "who gave twenty years of his life to a scatter-brained woman, sacrificing everything to her," only to realize in the end that he never loved her. How does Clamence explain this? "He had been bored, that's all, bored like most people." And from this boredom, the man married and created "a life full of complications and drama." For, as Clamence suggests, "something must happen-and that explains most human commitments."

Clamence describes himself, too, as "a double face, a charming Janus," for his motives and feelings, his very psyche, belie his outward virtue. While outwardly supporting the poor and downtrodden, he is "well aware that one can't get along without dominating or being served, [for] every man needs slaves as he needs fresh air." While known as a defender of justice, a great Parisian lawyer, his "true desire" is not "to be the most intelligent or the most generous creature on earth, but only to beat anyone [he] wanted to, to be the stronger." While professing deep love and affection for the many women in his life, he is a misogynist who "never loved any of them." As Clamence cynically suggests, "true love is exceptional, [occurring] two or three times a century more or less. The rest of the time there is vanity or boredom."

"The Fall" is a little novel that makes the reader ponder big questions, questions of meaning and existence and death, of how we live our lives and of what motivates our actions. It is, in other words, a novel that articulates the open-ended questioning characteristic of the French Existentialism of the 1940s and 1950s. But it is more than that, for it is also perhaps the finest work of one of France's greatest Twentieth Century authors, a work that deserves to be read, re-read and pondered.

Barely more than a hundred pages, "The Fall" represents Albert Camus' ultimate foray into the recesses of psychic anguish. Jean-Baptiste Clamence, a once-respected and successful Paris barrister, sits alone in an Amsterdam bar delivering his stark monologue to an unknown listener. It is a confessional narrative, a tale in which Clamence slowly unravels the spare facts of his life, his deceptions, his inauthenticity, his bad faith.

As he sits in the dimly lit bar, Clamence makes the locus of his telling a metaphor for the narrative to follow: "We are at the heart of things here. Have you noticed that Amsterdam's concentric canals resemble the circles of hell? The middle-class hell, of course, peopled with bad dreams. When one comes from the outside, as one gradually goes throught those circles, life-and hence its crimes-becomes denser, darker. Here we are in the last circle." It is a metaphor that resonates with existential imagery, reminiscent of Sartre's claim, in "No Exit", that "hell is other people." From this grim place, Camus writes a classic of Existentialist literature, building on this metaphor, writing an extended trope of unremitting self-examination, self-doubt and anguish.

Clamence was, by all outward appearances, both a virtuous and a modest man. His courtesy was famous and beyond question. He was generous in public and private, literally exulting at the approach of a beggar. He helped the blind man cross the street and the indigent defendant secure a reduced sentence. He ended his afternoons at the café with "a brilliant improvisation in the company of several friends on the hard-heartedness of our governing class and the hypocrisy of our leaders."

But appearances give lie to the truth, for the truth in "The Fall" is that life has no meaning, that it is full of ennui, and that people act unthinkingly, inauthentically, habitually. Thus, Clamence reflects on a man he knew, a man "who gave twenty years of his life to a scatter-brained woman, sacrificing everything to her," only to realize in the end that he never loved her. How does Clamence explain this? "He had been bored, that's all, bored like most people." And from this boredom, the man married and created "a life full of complications and drama." For, as Clamence suggests, "something must happen-and that explains most human commitments."

Clamence describes himself, too, as "a double face, a charming Janus," for his motives and feelings, his very psyche, belie his outward virtue. While outwardly supporting the poor and downtrodden, he is "well aware that one can't get along without dominating or being served, [for] every man needs slaves as he needs fresh air." While known as a defender of justice, a great Parisian lawyer, his "true desire" is not "to be the most intelligent or the most generous creature on earth, but only to beat anyone [he] wanted to, to be the stronger." While professing deep love and affection for the many women in his life, he is a misogynist who "never loved any of them." As Clamence cynically suggests, "true love is exceptional, [occurring] two or three times a century more or less. The rest of the time there is vanity or boredom."

"The Fall" is a little novel that makes the reader ponder big questions, questions of meaning and existence and death, of how we live our lives and of what motivates our actions. It is, in other words, a novel that articulates the open-ended questioning characteristic of the French Existentialism of the 1940s and 1950s. But it is more than that, for it is also perhaps the finest work of one of France's greatest Twentieth Century authors, a work that deserves to be read, re-read and pondered.

Aside from being Camus' crowning literary achievement, this work could also be viewed as one of the most important works of twentieth century literatue. It is also perhaps the most representational fictional work in the existensialist genre, far surpassing the work of Sartre. The Fall, aside from being a great work, is a masterful technical achievment, and a lesson in character development and dialogue. The plot revolves around a Parisian Lawyer by the name of Jean-Baptiste Clamence and his conversation with an anonymous man at an Amsterdam bar. As the story progresses the reader is gradually overwhelmed by the lawyers increasingly serious confessions. With no scenery to distract you the intensity of the conversation grows with each admission.

In his simple confession and out pouring of emotion we see a successful, seemingly content man, gradually transformed and reduced into an alienated, and shattered human being, a mere shell of the individual that he once strived to be. This book is similar to "The Stranger" in the way that the psychological tension continues to build, moving towards the final disheartening enlightenment. But, unlike "The Stranger" there is no closure for the subject or release from torment, only endless confession; not only for his individual crimes, but for those of all humanity. One can only speculate on how Camus would have continued this line of inquiry if he hadn't been tragically killed in an automobile accident at the age of 46. As it is we can only continue to enjoy and contemplate what he left behind. For as long as literature exists writers will continue to delve into the recesses of the human psyche and attempt to provide a flicker of light in, an all to often, dark world. After reading this book I can say that Camus accomplished this like few writers ever had, and will always be a sobering light amid the confusion of an often absurd world.

Aside from being Camus' crowning literary achievement, this work should also be viewed as one of the most important works of twentieth century literatue. It is also, perhaps, the most representational work of fiction in the existensialist genre, far surpassing the work of Sartre. The Fall, aside from being a great work, is also a masterful technical achievment, and a lesson in character development and dialogue. The plot revolves around a Parisian Lawyer by the name of Jean-Baptiste Clamence and his conversation with an anonymous man at an Amsterdam bar. As the story progresses the reader is gradually overwhelmed by the lawyers increasingly serious confessions. With no scenery to distract you from the intensity of the conversation, the tension grows with each new admission, which slowly reveals the fragile relationships that we have with others, as well as the delusional images projected upon the self. In his simple confession and out-pouring of emotion we see a successful, seemingly content man, gradually transformed and reduced into an alienated, and shattered human being; a mere shell of the individual that he once strived to be. This book is similar to "The Stranger" in the way that the psychological tension is meticulously and subtly built upon, inevitably moving towards a final disheartening, yet liberating, personal understanding. But, unlike "The Stranger" there is no closure for the subject or release from the psychological torment of reflection, only the curse of endless confession, not only concernign his individual crimes, but for his complicity in all the crimes of humanity. One can only speculate on how Camus would have continued this line of inquiry if he hadn't been tragically killed in an automobile accident at the age of 46. As it is we can only continue to enjoy and contemplate what he left behind. For as long as literature exists writers will continue to delve into the recesses of the human psyche and attempt to provide a flicker of light in, an all to often, dark and absurd world. After reading this book I can say that Camus accomplished this goal like few writers ever have, and his works will continue to represent a sobering light amid the confusion of an often absurd world.

Written in 1955-56, THE FALL is the last of Albert Camus's three finished novels. To me, it is the least satisfying. To the extent that I can get a purchase on the novel (which, at 147 pages, might be thought to be a novella), it is cheerless and cynical.

THE FALL is presented in the form of a monologue by a middle-aged Frenchman and former lawyer, Jean-Baptiste Clamence, who has exiled himself to drab and dreary Amsterdam. He holds court in a seedy sailors' bar in a red-light district. At the beginning of the novel, he buttonholes an anonymous patron of the bar who happens also to be French. The entire novel consists of Clamence's side of a very one-sided conversation that extends over six episodes. (One wonders why the anonymous interlocutor keeps coming back for more.) At first, Clamence tends to portray himself in a relatively favorable light, but as the novel progresses the boasting turns to self-condemnation and the monologue becomes an extended confession of cowardice, shamming, and selfishness. Moreover, it appears that Clamence does not see himself to be appreciably worse (more self-centered and amoral) than the vast majority of contemporary Europeans.

As told by Clamence, the central event of his life was a night in Paris as he walked to his home on the Left Bank by way of the Pont Royal. On the bridge he passed a slim young woman leaning over the railing and staring at the river. About fifty yards beyond, he heard the sound of a body striking the water and then cries, drifting downstream. He paused, but in the end did nothing, not even inform the police. A few years later, on another evening as he again walked up the quays of the Left Bank, he heard behind him, as if from the river, a "good, hearty, almost friendly laugh". That was the first of many instances where Clamence found himself pursued by a mocking yet good-natured laugh, so many that it becomes a theme of the novel.

On one level, the novel can be understood as a very personal confession of Albert Camus. In 1954, Camus's wife Francine twice attempted suicide. When, in early 1956, Camus showed Francine parts of the book, she told him, "You're always pleading the causes of all sorts of people, but do you ever hear the screams of people who are trying to reach you?" Clamence ignored the screams of the suicide and Camus knew that he had selfishly turned away from the cries for help from his wife . . . and probably others as well. Clamence is suave and charming and sexually promiscuous with women; so was Camus. (Indeed, Camus's inveterate philandering likely was the prime cause underlying Francine's suicide attempts.) There are several other notable correspondences between Clamence and Camus. To be sure, there are some biographical discrepancies too. Still, I sense it is Camus as much as Clamence who says, near the end of the novel, "Ah, mon cher, we are odd, wretched creatures, and if we merely look back over our lives, there's no lack of occasions to amaze and horrify ourselves."

Nonetheless, Camus undoubtedly was trying to do more with THE FALL than publish a moderately veiled self-denunciation. There are numerous religious elements: the novel's title, Clamence's given name ("Jean-Baptiste"), a stolen panel from a Van Eyck altarpiece popularly called "The Just Judges" which Clamence keeps in his bedroom, the sobriquet "the pope" that Clamence was given in WWII when interred in a prison camp, and many more. I frankly don't know what to make of them, especially since Camus was a steadfast atheist. There are also numerous allusions to other works of Western literature (for example, Dante's "Inferno") as well as what appear to be several allusions to "The Stranger". Again, I have no theories about what Camus was up to. And speaking of other authors, THE FALL reminds me of some of the works of Joseph Roth, though I doubt that Camus was familiar with any of Roth's writing.

I do agree with a statement on the back cover of my old Vintage paperback (priced at $1.65) that at least one of the novel's messages is that "no man is innocent and no man may therefore judge others from a standpoint of righteousness." Beyond that and the personal confession, I found the novel ambiguous and mildly disorienting. Perhaps my biggest problem with it is that I was unable to identify with, or feel much empathy for, Jean-Baptiste Clamence. He is more alien to my sensibilities than, say, Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov. Hard pressed though I am to explain why, THE FALL leaves me rather indifferent. Three-and-a-half stars.

A self-described 'judge-penitent', met in a cosmopolitan bar in Amsterdam, tells us the story of his life in this evocative, yet deeply introspective novel by existential philosopher Albert Camus. The narrator is an intelligent, voluble, fanciful man, who had been a lawyer in his former life, never doubting that he was an essentially good person, fulfilling more than his share of charitable, even altruistic duties, and even taking great pleasure in the realization that he was a better man than most... at least until an incident on a bridge in November taught him that he was not so remarkable a man after all. After this experience, his self-confidence and self-image are shattered, as is his overall perception of humanity in general. Unable to go on as he had been, he re-invents himself as part of a plan to try to give meaning to the remains of his broken life.

While not as much of a 'downer' book as the above synopsis may sound to some, this is a very sobering story for those who have given little thought to their own moral position in the world. The narrator's fall from ignorant bliss is universal, or at least common enough that it should strike a disturbing chord with most readers. Still, the story is perhaps not entirely without hope, and is, of course, told in descriptive language that evokes urban Europe while providing settings that carefully dictate mood and theme as well. The structure of the essentially one-sided conversation is powerfully riveting, and helps keep this book a quick read despite its weightiness, but the structure is also functional within the context of the story, since the purpose is to convert the reader to the narrator's viewpoint. Whether this technical tour-de-force actually changes one's life or not, readers should be prompted to re-examine their own lives and values, which in itself can hardly be a bad thing. This book is not challenging reading, but it challenges the way we live and perceive ourselves.

The Fall by Albert Camus is a short, disturbing work about the "fallen" life of Jean-Baptiste Clamence, the narrator of the story. The entire work is actually Clamence's own narrative, which makes reading it more like listening to a type of confession; at the very least it is like being on the recieving end of a conversation.

As the title indicates, this books plays off of Christian themes heavily. The very idea of "the fall" is a fundamentally Christian notion of lost innocence (which is very much at the heart of this work); "Jean-Baptiste" - "John [the] Baptist" in English - describes himself as a type of prophet crying in the wilderness but refusing to come forth; the bar he frequents is described as a church (and one could argue that, by extension, his life in the bar is something of a participation in an inverted communion); entire discussions about redemption, forgiveness, and repentance fill the pages of this work.

Despite all of its religious imagery and imagination, however, it is a work that is completely devoid of any notions of real redemption, forgiveness or love. Clamence's/Camus' view is basically that this world is, indeed, fallen but that there is nothing else.

It is interesting that an entire discussion about the death of God takes place within this book. As Camus - like Nietzsche before him - notes, without God all meaning and transcendence is lost. The picture Camus paints of such a world is indeed compelling if God is dead; as Clamence says - tragically - at the end of the book, he would permit himself everything all over again but without laughter the next time. A world devoid of laughter is a world devoid of love; a world devoid of love is a world devoid of transcendence; a world devoid of transcendence is a world devoid of God.

This book is a heavy work that attempts to carry the weight of the world upon its existential shoulders. It is one of the better places to start if one is interested in getting a feel for existentialist philosophy and literature, as well as a post-Nietzschean worldview.

Upon finishing this book, one should listen closely to the sounds of a haunting silence, born of a world without laughter, and ask one's self whether or not that silence is compelling. Is it what one wants to hear? Is it what one does in fact hear? Perhaps ironically, it is only in such absence that the whisper of faith, hope, and love can be heard; indeed, fallenness cannot be the totality of being.

A viewpoint that denies laughter is, in the end, a viewpoint worth looking past, over, and beyond: in short, transcending.

When Albert Camus died in 1960 in a car accident, he was only 46 years old. Of all the great writers of the 20th century, his death may have been the most tragic simply because he died at the height of his powers as a writer and as a thinker. Every indication we have is that his work was growing in complexity and depth. There is no way to guage what what he might have achieved had he lived longer.

Many reviewing here have called THE FALL the great existential novel. In part because I have never really understood what "existentialism" was (despite doing my doctoral work on Kierkegaard, the so-called "father of existentialism" and having actually taught a course on existentialism [while a grad student--I needed the money]), the term has never really signified much for me. In part this is because every so-called existentialist can be better characterized in other philosophical terms. For instance, Jean-Paul Sartre is more fruitfully understood as a phenomenologist or a late Marxist than as an existentialist.

But even if "existentialist" communicated more than it does, I would not describe THE FALL as an existentialist novel, say, in the way that THE STRANGER is. The latter fully communicates the meaningless of human existence and moral vacuity of individual life that we associate with existentialism. In THE FALL, however, while the pretensions and hypocrisies of one individual life are unmasked, Camus strives to go beyond utter despair to find a more authenticate and--even--hopeful mode of living. THE STRANGER was ultimately destructive in its message. THE FALL is an act of demolition, but only so that something better can be erected in its place. Camus doesn't really communicated what will take its place, but it will clearly be based upon an empathetic concern for our neighbor and a passionate concern for others.

The novel, as has been noted, is presented as a conversation between a Parisian lawyer and an unnamed and unspeaking patron of an Amsterdam bar. It is written in such a way that the reader seems to be that patron. The lawyer tells a tale of his own career and moral hypocrisy in such a way, he tells us, that at a certain point it ceases to be a portrait and becomes a mirror, which he holds up and shows the other his own life. The point? During the tale he tells, he mentions a man who insisted on sleeping on the floor of his abode in order not to enjoy a luxury which a friend of his who is in prison has been denied. The lawyer confesses that perhaps his purpose is to get others to sleep on the floor for him.

In terms of Camus' entire output, The Fall probably ranks somewhere in the middle as far as quality is concerned, and of course, such categorization is subjective. Still, the middle point of Camus' ouvre is still top-caliber comparatively speaking. Clearly Camus was grappling, digging and searching for answers during this period, which was nothing new for him. He had broken off with Sartre and with the existentialist "school" that was focused on remedying social injustice. Camus had been a member of the French Communist party briefly in the 30's and Sartre wanted to take him back into the fold, but Camus rejected him (of course it's more complicated than that). However, if you're looking for a serious discussion of his soul-searching, you'd be better advised to turn to his essays of the period, rather than to this work, for The Fall represents Camus at play, having a bit of fun with his over-serious readership and with a movement (Existentialism) he felt had become over inflated. What he's doing here is basically taking his pants down and mooning the whole moody, intellectual crowd.

The Fall is a monologue (not a dialogue, as mentioned elsewhere), written in first person (not second, as, again, is enumerated several times in the course of reviews here). There is one character in the novel. He is a highly unreliable narrator, a point that is passed over in all the Amazon reviews. He is ostensibly a lawyer, yet his calling card says that he is an actor. Camus is practically yelling at the reader, telling him not to take anything the narrator says at face value: "You, for instance, <mon cher compatriote>, stop and think what your sign would be. You are silent? Well, you'll tell me later on. I know mine in any case: a double face, a charming Janus, and above it the motto of the house: 'Don't rely on it.' On my cards: 'Jean-Baptiste Clamence, play actor.'" The "Jean-Baptiste" is another clue, for if you are familiar with French literature it should ring a bell that Jean-Baptiste Poquelin was the famous playwright Moliere's given name. Not that Jean-Baptiste is that uncommon a name, but in the context, given the fact that the narrator refers to himself as an actor (Moliere acted in his own company), the referent is pretty glaring. So this is a story told by a comedian who is essentially improvising the whole thing, Commedia dell' Arte style. So if you're looking for referents, it has a lot more to do with Pirandello than with Kirkeggard.

The only reason for all this background is merely to make the point that this work should not be taken so seriously as it has been by a majority of Amazon reviewers, and by many in the literary community before them. Sure, Camus inserts a lot of angst-ridden, "life's a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing," passages, but it's clear by the context that he is parodying himself and his "compatriotes." This is an intentional shaggy-dog story. He is having us on.

Read it for fun. Just don't overtax yourself looking for "deep" meaning here. It's a literary tromp-l'oeil. If the ending of the book doesn't convince you of that, nothing will.