Hating Albert Camus is hard to do.

 Hating Albert Camus is hard to do.

Qualia Journal

I run a web-based critics group named Shirasu Front Row, inspired by the BBC radio 4 program Front Row.

Yesterday we discussed Albert Camus's last and unfinished autobiographical novel, The First Man. Participants generally gave rave reviews. The vivid and sensual recollections of a boyhood, the longing for a father who died in the war, family members helping each other in poverty, and a kind teacher who opened the door to a wider world. Camus's writing is deeply moving and humane. 

The critical consensus was that The First Man was a masterpiece, except for, one participant, whom I nam
e here Mr. C.

Mr. C opined that he could not stand Camus's narcissism. We did not quite understand Mr.C, but there must be some deeply rooted reasons for hating Camus. Last year, when we discussed Camus's another masterpiece, The Fall, Mr. C gave 10 points out of 100. For The First Man, Mr.C gave just 9 out of 100.

We were all puzzled by Mr. C's hatred. Hating Albert Camus is hard to do. There must be something between Albert Camus and Mr. C.

By the way, if you divide humans into 10 groups, Mr.C looks like Albert Camus. They belong to the same group.

As a consolation I imagined the magnificence of Mt. Fuji

 As a consolation I imagined the magnificence of Mt. Fuji

Qualia Journal

On the morning after a heavy snow fall, I was on the Shinkansen train bound west. I was to make a day trip to and from the city of Fukuyama.

I was so looking forward to seeing Mt. Fuji. The famous mountain should look even more beautiful after a day of snow, on the now clear and shining world of a crisp winter day.

I was seated on the Mt. Fuji side of the bullet train and started to work. When I looked up, something was strange. I was just crossing a bridge over a broad river. I looked back, but there was no Mr. Fuji in sight.

I have made the Shinkansen trip from Tokyo hundreds of times, and could tell more or less immediately where I was judging from the scenery. However, in the aftershock of an intensive work session, I was at a loss for a few moments to tell where I was.

I gradually figured out that the train has already passed the Mt. Fuji region, and was now heading toward Nagoya, in the western part of Shizuoka prefecture. Absorbed in my work, what I thought as just a few minutes actually turned out to be much longer.

I was aghast. I so much wanted to see the beautiful Mt. Fuji on this audacious day after the general election. As a consolation I imagined the magnificence of Mt. Fuji in my fantasy nation of Japan, complete with its crisp shining peak and an elegant slope line formed by the law of gravity.

Qualia Journal.