An intellectual? Yes. And never deny it. An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. I like this, because I am happy to be both halves, the watcher and the watched. "Can they be brought together?" This is a practical question. We must get down to it. "I despise intelligence" really means: "I cannot bear my doubts.
Interpretation
The quote explores the duality of being aware of one's thoughts and the struggle with self-doubt.
In this quote, Albert Camus reflects on the nature of intellect and self-awareness. He suggests that to be an intellectual involves a degree of self-observation, where one can critically analyze their own thoughts and feelings. The mention of despising intelligence hints at a discomfort with the uncertainty and doubts that often accompany deep thinking. Ultimately, the quote invites readers to acknowledge and embrace the complexities of their own minds, including both the analytical and the vulnerable aspects.
In practice
In a philosophy class discussion about the nature of self-awareness.
The Poor Man whom everyone speaks of, the Poor Man whom everyone pities, one of the repulsive Poor from whom charitable souls keep their distance, he has still said nothing. Or, rather, he has spoken through the voice of Victor Hugo, Zola, Richepin. At least, they said so. And these shameful impostures fed their authors. Cruel irony, the Poor Man tormented with hunger feeds those who plead his case.
The certainty of a God giving meaning to life far surpasses in attractiveness the ability to behave badly with impunity. The choice would not be hard to make. But there is no choice and that is where the bitterness comes in. The absurd does not liberate; it binds.
Between history and the eternal I have chosen history because I like certainties. Of it, at least, I am certain, and how can I deny this force crushing me.
Don't wait for the last judgment - it takes place every day.
A single sentence will suffice for modern man. He fornicated and read the papers. After that vigorous definition, the subject will be, if I may say so, exhausted.
At times I feel myself overtaken by an immense tenderness for these people around me who live in the same century.
So India’s problem turns out to be the world’s problem. What happened in India has happened in God’s name. The problem’s name is God.
All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling.
I think you have to remember that Americans saw their purpose as so innately good that they could excuse the pain they would inflict on others to carry out those purposes. Because the purposes were so good, they would justify this pain we were inflicting on other people.
Truly, nothing in the world has so occupied my thoughts as this I, this riddle, the fact I am alive, that I am separated and isolated from all others, that I am Siddhartha! And about nothing in the world do I know less about than me, about Siddhartha!
An economic system which can only expand or expire must be false to all that is human.
Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.
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