Albert Camus’ observations in his collection of essays “Personal Writings” is full of aphorisms and memories, overwhelmingly written in an impressionist style, almost painterly, but as immediately recognisable vignettes. It’s marvelous where he describes his body remembering the height of the steps in his childhood home so he would be able to climb them again confidently in complete darkness (“His very body is impregnated with this house”) – I remember that exactly as well.
His travel writing is similar, with details and impressions of sunlight and its effects in Algiers, Palma and Ibiza – the Mediterranean light having an effect on people who live on its shores everywhere.
He is such an inveterate heterosexual (“There are women in Genoa whose smile I loved for a whole morning”) he is not aware of being chatted up (“Some sort of naval officer was belching alcohol-laden compliments into my face”).
I don’t have the confidence to read it in French but the English translation is such that you do not notice it is a translation, which is what a proper translation should be.
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