“I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world” (Camus 122-123).
This quote is from the book I finished most recently: The Stranger by Albert Camus.
The novel is a French classic, translated obviously, that revolves around a man who was drawn into a senseless murder, sentenced to death, and faced with his mortality and the absurdity of the universe in his last moments alive.
As a translated story, there is often some discrepancy between words or lines that could have multiple meanings. Take the aforementioned quote, for example. In some versions, “benign” is instead “gentle,” and “the world” becomes “the universe.”
These differences, with their subtle variation and simple distinctions, are interesting, of course, from both a literary and a linguistic perspective. But ultimately, the meaning of the line is the same. The meaning of the line is that there is no meaning at all.
Whether the indifference belongs to the world or the Universe, no matter how benign or gentle it turns out to be, it is still there.
When I read this line on the last page of The Stranger, sitting across from my best friend in Starbucks last Wednesday, I felt infinity rush into my ears. It swirled through my ears and left nothing but mortality behind.
I have neither the time nor the ability to accurately transcribe my idea of the meaning of life besides stating the simple, gentle, benign fact that there isn’t one.
Nothing in the universe had inherent meaning, and the possibility of life lay unfurling before me.
I don’t know why Camus, with his belief in an absurd universe and optimistic philosophy, spoke to me as much as it did. But what I do know is that on that same Wednesday night, sitting alone at my kitchen counter, trying to study for a test, I was alive.
I was alive and recognizing the fact that I wouldn’t be forever. Alone in my kitchen at midnight, everything was a cosmic coincidence; nothing in the universe had inherent meaning, and the possibility of life lay unfurling before me.
Everything felt softer in the dim yellow light spilling across the scratched, hardwood floor, and for the first time in so long, I was not rushed. I picked up the book again and let myself stumble over thoughts and emotions until I arrived, so very gently, at the door of the universe and met the indifference face to face.
And then it was a struggle. I do not want to live in an indifferent world. I do not want it all to be up to me. I do not want to exist by chance, with no meaning. My illogic, senseless life is swirling above my head, and I’m standing at the door, and I am angry.
But the Universe is calm, and I understand.
The world is indifferent, but I am not. If there is no meaning to life and no inherent value in any part of creation, then I will assign my own. Suddenly, everything is bright and vibrant. Everything means something.
So I let myself sit at my kitchen counter for one more calm moment. I let myself lay down in the benign face of an indifferent world. I let my life trail gently through the infinite, meaningless absurd, and I let everything become meaningful.
