She followed Marcel, that was all, happy to feel that someone needed her. He gave her no other joy than knowing that she was necessary. No doubt, he didn’t love her. Love, even hateful, didn’t have that scowling face. But what was his face? They made love in the night, without seeing each other, groping. Was there any love other than that of darkness, a love that cried out in broad daylight? She didn’t know, but she knew Marcel needed her, and she needed this need. That she lived that need night and day, especially at night, every night, when he neither wanted to be alone, nor to grow old, nor to die. With a stubborn look he had, which she had sometimes recognized on other men’s faces. The only common bearing of these madmen who camouflaged themselves under the air of reason until delirium grabbed them. It desperately threw them towards a woman’s body to escape from there, without desire, as loneliness and night showed them their fear.
From “The Adulterous Woman,” by Albert Camus
Translated from French by Louis Villalba
A beautiful snippet by the brilliant French writer Albert Camus. Readers witness the moment’s emotion, “She lived that need night and day, especially at night, every night, when he neither wanted to be alone, nor to grow old, nor to die. With that stubborn look, he had she sometimes recognized on other men’s faces. The only common bearing of these madmen who camouflaged themselves under the air of reason until delirium grabbed them.”
I enjoy Albert Camus’s prose, his use of the language without wasting words or abusing its poetic allure. I like the way he describes his characters, the background where actions occur, and the almost magic influence on the recounted events.
Original text:
Elle suivait Marcel, voilà tout, contente de sentir que quelqu’un avait besoin d’elle. Il ne lui donnait pas d’autre joie que de se savoir nécessaire. Sans doute ne l’aimait-il pas. L’amour, même haineux, n’a pas ce visage renfrogné. Mais quel est son visage? Ils s’aimaient dans la nuit, sans se voir, à tâtons. Y a-t-il un autre amour que celui des ténèbres, un amour qui crierait en plein jour ? Elle ne savait pas, mais elle savait que Marcel avait besoin d’elle et qu’elle avait besoin de ce besoin, qu’elle en vivait la nuit et le jour, la nuit surtout, chaque nuit, où il ne voulait pas être seul, ni vieillir, ni mourir, avec cet air buté qu’il prenait et qu’elle reconnaissait parfois sur d’autres visages d’hommes, le seul air commun de ces fous qui se camouflent sous des airs de raison, jusqu’à ce que le délire les prenne et les jette désespérément vers un corps de femme pour y enfouir, sans désir, ce que la solitude et la nuit leur montrent d’effrayant.
