I stepped into the elevator at the college library one afternoon, around 10 or 11 years ago. Another student walked in behind me. As the doors closed, he said, “You’re the literature guy, right?”
“That’s me. Literature’s my middle name,” I responded. I held out my hand and said, “The Guy: pleased to meet you.”
He shook my hand, nonplussed. Then he asked, “I was just wondering: have you read much by Camus?”
I said, “Not really. It’s been my belief that most of French existentialism prior to World War II just presaged the fact that the French would fold faster than Superman on laundry day when the Germans rolled in. And all of it after the war was an attempt at justifying that fact.” [Note: I realize that this is an unfair characterization, and if you’d like to call me out on it like a bitch, click here.]
“Oh,” he said. “So you don”t read Camus’ books?”
“No. When you get down to it, I’m a Stranger to Camus,” I replied.
Dead silence.
“Really, I avoid Camus like the Plague.”
Uncomfortably dead silence.
“Well, maybe I’ll get around to reading him in the Fall.”
The elevator doors opened. I expected to hear crickets or see tumbleweeds rolling by. I had bombed before, but this was worse than Dresden.
Anyway, this was a little preface to mention that, while killing time in Rutherford, NJ yesterday evening, I bought a copy of The Plague and sat in a little cafe, where I read the first 40 pages or so (and drank a double espresso).
I have no idea if the book is responsible for this, or if it’s more because of the four G&Ts I socked down in the city at my buddy’s birthday party (on an empty stomach), but I had some of the most vivid and disturbing dreams I’ve had in months.
But the book’s actually not that bad so far.