Albert Camus was born in 1913 in Mondovi, charming little town in the eastern Algerian coast nicknamed "Little Paris" without it knows exactly why: point you in Mondovi with a map of Paris and you are bewildered by ten minutes. As told so Coluche, they say they want to develop tourism, but they do not care of our mouths, there's not a street that matches. The following year, the first world war and the young Albert Camus never know his father, a wine merchant in Algiers killed at the first clashes. It is therefore raised by his mother, half deaf and who can neither read nor write, which is always better than a half-cop, you know, those people who can not read. Very quickly, Albert Camus won a scholarship and went to study in Algiers, where he began a promising career as a goalkeeper, quickly cut short by tuberculosis who is hitting in 1930. Rested forced Camus wrote his first book, "The Wrong Side and the Right" and then worked for Republican Algiers, the newspaper of the banned Popular Front in 1940. Whatever. Albert divorce the same year Simone Hie, wife Francine Faure and bar in Paris where he finds a job as a copy editor in Paris Soir. In 1942 released "The Stranger " huge blockbuster of French literature including can not underestimate that too little negative influence on modern civilization without the Stranger, no Killing An Arab without Killing An Arab , no cure, no cure, no Indochina, and without Indochina, it would still be much more cushy.
We are in 1944 and Albert Camus became friends with Jean-Paul Sartre while taking the leadership of the clandestine newspaper Combat, which is one of the few French intellectuals to denounce the use of the atomic bomb in 1945 by U.S.. Pacifist and humanist despair, he returned to Algiers during the war in Algeria in 1956, to launch his famous "Appeal for civil truce," incurring the wrath of separatists who threaten the dead. Albert Camus was very touched by the confidence of his fellow Blackfoot and writing this year's Fall , pessimistic book possible.
Without having anything in writing other interesting stuff from abroad, in 1957 he received the Nobel Prize for Literature (or was he spinning Franquin who came to lay the character GastonLagaffe). Three years later, January 4, 1960, he suffered a car accident driving at 180 mph by Michel Gallimard, nephew of the publisher Gaston (Gallimard, Lagaffe not, take a little), died instantly and was buried in a small village in the Luberon, where he had bought a property. 50 years later, Nicolas I, king of idiots (remember, a jerk, it dares all, why we even acknowledges), proposes to transfer the remains of Albert Camus in the Pantheon. When I heard that, it seemed that the sky opened over its entire extent to let the fire rain. My whole being was tense and I clenched my hands on the revolver. The trigger failed, I hit the belly of the stock and polished it there in the noise both dry and deafening that it all began. I shook the sweat and sun. I realized that I had destroyed the balance of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I was happy. So I fired four more times on an inert body where the bullets sank without it seeming.
And it was as short as four shots I knocked on the door of unhappiness.
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