1956. Two prominent literary figures, over an oceans divide, publish two phenomenally similar books: Albert Camus releases “The Fall” and Saul Bellow issues “Seize the Day”. A judge-penitent meets a hippopotamus.
Structurally the two books are heterogeneous; “The Fall”, employing the relatively simple method of first person narrative, takes the form of a singularly dominated conversation. The readers entrance into the narrative is through the conversation with the judge-penitent and he or she is sporadically reminded of their participation in the story only through the occasional second person accusation. The anonymity of the protagonist’s interlocutor is conserved through their lack of voice; any input into the dialogue has to be inferred from the judge-penitent’s restatement or reaction: the interlocutor is simultaneously the specific reader with the book in hand and the universal individual. This tools’ effect on the reader is marvelous. Unlike many third person narrative forms where the reader stands omnisciently above the action of the characters, Camus forces his reader into psychological participation with the novel. There is no avoiding it, “The Fall” is a forceful ethical incrimination of the 1950’s cultural and ideological milieu.
The accusatory method, employed in the “The Fall”, of addressing the reader, brilliantly utilizes what Louis Althusser called “interpellation”[1]. The reader is initially drawn into the conversation. As the story progresses he/she identifies more strongly with the implied interlocutor. By the end of the novel Camus’ intended effect is to elicit a sense of active creative participation with the progressive unfolding of the conversation. The reader feels more as if they are resuming an ongoing conversation with an old friend then passively reading every time they pick up the book. Then Camus reveals what the occupation of a judge-penitent is. But it is too late to retreat, he has woven his literary web too well, and at the point of accusation the reader can no longer distance themselves from the implied character to which the accusation is addressed; agree with the terms of his accusation or not, the reader cannot simply avoid the judge-penitents pointed finger. Simply through alignment with Camus’ accusatory “you”, one has tacitly assumed their guilt.
“Seize the day” masterfully employs universal relatability in all of its characters particularities. Unlike “The Fall” Bellow hastily, yet thoroughly, casts the reader into the moral and psychological strains which have befallen its main character: Tommy Wilhelm. Rather then slowly draw the reader into moral ensnarement, the reader is thrown, without any moorings, into the heart of Wilhelm’s psychological drama. Effusive anxiety flows from Bellow’s description of Tommy’s ticks, racing thoughts, and palpable unease. Wilhelm occupies the role of irresolvable existential angst. With apprehension the reader wades through Tommy’s recollection of aborted pursuits and ephemeral desires. With a childlike desperation and sense of injustice Tommy attaches his aspirations to progressively more impetuous endeavors.
In “Sieze the Day” Bellow refuses the greatest temptation for philosophers and layman alike: to conclude a narrative with a single universal resolution to an easily identifiable problem. Whether it was his studies in the fields of anthropology and psychology or simply his perspicacity in discerning the subtleties of the human dilemma, Bellow captures the uneasiness of life and the artificiality of despondently concocted solutions. At the end of novel Tommy’s frenzied determination resists the readers desire for sentimental closure.
“‘I’ll get a divorce if it’s the last thing I do,’ he swore. ‘As for Dad—As for Dad—I’ll have to sell the car for junk and pay the hotel. I’ll have to go on my knees to Olive and say, ‘Stand by me a while. Don’t let her win. Olive!’ And he thought, I’ll try to start again with Olive. In fact, I must. Olive loves me. Olive—”
How then, do these two tales meet? Hegel called it “the night of the world”, Nietzche called it “beyond good and evil”, and Lacan the “smooth surface of the real”. Though both narratives deal with specific circumstances of individuals they are allegories for the human condition at the time the authors were writing. Each novel is a narrative deliberation on the question of life after order, life in the face of absolute freedom. Neither author attempts to conclusively resolve the dilemma. Both stories result in the dissolution of reality, where the semblance of unity that binds actuality for its characters unravels at the seams. Camus’ method binds the reader—and by proxy, humanity—to his narrative, while Bellow grants access to psychological disillusionment through the character Tommy Wilhem; which is none the less as effective.
Camus’ judge-penitent resolves his unraveling by heralding and hoping for the coming of a new order, a new master who will tell him how to live. “In short, you see, the essential is to cease being free and to obey, in repentance, a greater rogue than oneself. When we are all guilty, that will be democracy. Without counting, cher ami, that we must take revenge for having to die alone. Death is solitary, whereas slavery is collective.” Like Tommy Wilhelm’s final shallow resoluteness quoted above, the judge-penitent’s desire to return to order, to bow before a different god, offers little solace to the reader. The judge-penitent readily admits the emptiness of his resolution—“I occasionally hear a distant laugh and again I doubt”—but knows of no other way to deal with his freedom.
Bellow gives Tommy no such temporary fix. His story concludes with the culmination of Tommy’s breakdown. “The flowers and lights fused ecstatically in Wilhelm’s blind, wet eyes; the heavy sea-like music came up to his ears. It poured into him where he had hidden himself in the center of a crowd by the great and happy oblivion of tears. He heard it and sank deeper than sorrow, through torn sobs and cries toward the consummation of his heart’s ultimate need.”
The inherently moral character of both stories is found in the creative space that comes after the narratives end. It is the reader that must pick up the remains of post WWII reality and use it to build the latter half of the twentieth century. We can almost conclusively say however, that our parents chose the route of the judge-penitent and worshiped at the altar of a new god: the religion of the market. Like the former divine will, their new order came in the form of “market laws” and which—like God’s laws in the 17th and 18th centuries—were mistaken for “objective reality”. Nevertheless, dissolution with laws of the market are reaching a new height today. The general economic prosperity which was to follow on the heels of privatization, free trade, greater economic interdependence, and deregulation has failed to manifest itself. Instead, economic instability over much of the globe has caused an unprecedented degree of outrage and social anxiety. Like the fervent bishops who would march their armies ill-equipped into crusades reliant upon distorted faith, insulated politicians deny—in the face of all evidence—any flaw in free market neo-liberal ideology. If we have ears to hear, we must work towards the creative restructuring of society prior to a catastrophic event like WWII. The lesson to be drawn from Camus and Bellow is not to wait until one has fallen into “the night of the world” in order to reflect on the path down which humanity is heading.
[1] Interpellation implies the assumption of guilt by acknowledging an anonymous address. For example when a police officer yells “you there, stop!” and four people turn around to look, on some level each person experienced a subjective assumption of guilt.
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