Yet he fled the places and sections frequented by artists. Whenever he met an acquaintance who spoke to him of his painting, he would be seized with panic. He wanted to get away, that was obvious, and he did get away. He knew what was said behind his back: "He thinks he's Rembrandt," and his discomfort increased. In any event, he never smiled any more, and his former friends drew an odd and inevitable conclusion from this: "If he has given up smiling, this is because he's very satisfied with himself." Knowing that, he became more and more elusive and skittish. It was enough for him, on entering a cafe, to have the feeling that someone there recognized him for everything to cloud over within him. For a second, he would stand there, powerless and filled with a strange sadness, his inscrutable face hiding both his uneasiness and his avid and sudden need for friendship. He would think of Rateau's cheering look and would rush out in a hurry. "Just look at that guy's hangover!" he heard someone say close to him one day as he was disappearing.

He now frequented only the outlying sections, where no one knew him. There he could talk and smile and his kindliness came back, for no one expected anything of him. He made a few friends, who were not very hard to please. He particularly enjoyed the company of one of them, who used to serve him in a station buffet where he often went. That fellow had asked him "what he did in life." "Painter," Jonas had replied. "Picture-painter or house-painter?" "Picture." "Well," said the fellow, "that's not easy." And they had never broached the subject again. No, it was not easy, but Jonas would manage all right, as soon as he had found how to organize his work.

Ohhhhhhhh! The geographical cure!

But this was best, I think

Day after day and drink after drink, he had many encounters, and women helped him. He could talk to them, before or after the love-making, and especially boast a little, for they would understand him even if they weren't convinced. At times it seemed to him that his old strength was returning. One day when he had been encouraged by one of his female acquaintances, he made up his mind. He returned home, tried to work again in the bedroom, the seamstress being absent. But after an hour of it he put his canvas away, smiled at Louise with. out seeing her, and went out. He drank all day long and spent the night with his acquaintance, though without being in any condition to desire her. In the morning, the image of suffering with its tortured face received him in the person of Louise. She wanted to know if he had taken that woman. Jonas said that, being drunk, he had not, but that he had taken others before. And for the first time, his heart torn within him, he saw that Louise suddenly had the look of a drowned woman, that look that comes from surprise and an excess of pain. It dawned upon him that he had not thought of Louise during this whole time, and he was ashamed. He begged her forgiveness, it was all over, tomorrow everything would begin again as it had been in the past. Louise could not speak and turned away to hide her tears.

Oh oh! Women! Of course they understood him

Very early the next day he climbed into the loft, sat down, set the frame on the stool against the wall, and waited without lighting the lamp. The only direct sounds he heard came from the kitchen or the toilet. The other noises seemed distant, and the visits, the ringing of the doorbell and the telephone, the comings and goings, the conversations, reached him half muffled, as if they came from out on the street or from the farther court. Besides, although the whole apartment was overflowing with blinding sunlight, the darkness here was restful. From time to time a friend would come and plant himself under the loft. "What are you doing up there, Jonas?" "I'm working." "Without light?" "Yes, for the moment." He was not painting, but he was meditating. In the darkness and this half-silence which, by contrast with what he had known before, seemed to him the silence of the desert or of the tomb, he listened to his own heart. The sounds that reached the loft seemed not to concern him any more, even when addressed to him. He was like those men who die alone at home in their sleep, and in the morning the telephone rings, feverish and insistent, in the deserted house, over a body forever deaf. But he was alive, he listened to this silence within himself, he was waiting for his star, still hidden but ready to rise again, to burst forth at last, unchanged and unchanging, above the disorder of these empty days. "Shine, shine," he said. "Don't deprive me of your light." It would shine again, of that he was sure. But he would have to meditate still longer, since at last the chance was given him to be alone without separating from his family. He still had to discover what he had not yet clearly understood, although he had always known it and had always painted as if he knew it. He had to grasp at last that secret which was not merely the secret of art, as he could now see. That is why he didn't light the lamp.

That makes sense

One evening he called Louise and asked for some blankets. "I'll spend the night up here." Louise looked at him with her head bent backward. She opened her mouth and then said nothing. She was merely scrutinizing Jonas with a worried and sad expression. He suddenly saw how much she had aged and how deeply the trials of their life had marked her too. It occurred to him that he had never really helped her. But before he could say a word, she smiled at him with an affection that wrung his heart. "Just as you say, dear," she said.

Henceforth he spent his nights in the loft, almost never coming down any more. As a result, the apartment was emptied of visitors since Jonas couldn't be seen any more either by day or night. Some were told that he was in the country; others, when lying became an effort, that he had found a studio. Rateau alone came faithfully. He would climb up on the ladder until his big, friendly head was just over the level of the flooring. "How goes it?" he would ask. "Wonderfully." "Are you working?" "It comes to the same thing." "But you have no canvas!" "I'm working just the same." It was hard to prolong this dialogue from ladder to loft. Rateau would shake his head, come back down, help Louise replace fuses or repair a lock, then, without climbing onto the ladder, say good night to Jonas, who would reply in the darkness: "So long, old boy." One evening Jonas added thanks to his good-night. "Why thanks?" "Because you love me." "That's really news!" Rateau said as he left.

Good ole Rateau

All you clever people need speak up about this very strange (to me) story. I don't have a clue. It is by far the longest story so far, but for all the length, the meaning I can get out is pretty small. Is it really a fairly simple and obvious matter of the artist's choice being one of solitude vs. involvement? How does Jonas' "star" function in the themes of the story? I grew weary of all the domestic details listed in this story. And I'm not clicking on the significance of the bible quote. But somebody surely can enlighten me(?)

DWill

DWill wrote:All you clever people need speak up about this very strange (to me) story. I don't have a clue.

Somehow I feel already condemned by saying anything at all. Nevertheless . . . .

An artist is supposed to be a vehicle of inspiration, like an ancient prophet.

Jonah is a prophet whose prophecy did not come true. He lacked inspiration.
Jonas is an uninspired minor talent, a creature of fashion. Lacking a real star, he collapses when he falls out of fashion.

Society is probably the whale that vomits Jonas out.

Tom

OMG! You mean it's just a story? No hidden meanings? No metaphors?

Now that's just terrible - the man shouldn't have been allowed to publish it!

I never in all my life!

(Heh! Heh!)

C'mon now, folks . . . surely there's something . . . anybody flush a toilet?

How about when he 'elevated' himself - built his little loft - put himself above all others . . . which, in my opinion, is what this artist did.

Without all these visitors, he wouldn't have anybody to put himself above . . . his adoring fans.

True, he did have some feeling for his wife . . . felt sorry for her a coupla' times. But that was her 'need' . . . to be a martyr - oh, my long suffering life!

If she didn't struggle to make the home so comfortable - especially for himself - then he might have focused more on the reality of their lives.

I wonder, had his wife written poetry, played an instrument, sang - how he might have felt if she neglected everything - the children, the housework, the constant entertaining of friends.

No hidden meaning in all that, but Camus gets the message across - he's depicting the two personalities in this marriage - the artist and his need to work, the wife of the artist who needs to be 'needed'.

Or can't we abide by 'just a story' with a message?

WildCityWoman wrote:Or can't we abide by 'just a story' with a message?

With another author I might agree with you. Many stories are overanalyzed. When you're writing, you often don't consciously pick themes or theories or techniques--the story just unfolds the way it wants to.

But Camus seems like an abstract, philosophical guy. To me, he doesn't seem as interested in telling plain stories as he is in exploring the "hidden meanings" of his characters' lives. After all, in The Adulterous Woman absolutely nothing happens except a bunch of philosophical stuff inside Janine. I'm not saying exciting events don't take place inside a person's heart, but without an external plot, it's hard to grab a reader's attention that way (or mine, at least) unless you get them thinking about bigger issues. Personally, I'm not a fan of overtly philosophical literature and therefore am finding it hard to get excited about Camus--but I have to respect him because I think he puts a bit more thought into the significance of his works than maybe some other writers do.

Maybe I just think this because I know he's famous for writing philosophy. But his works are very contemplative and seem loaded with issues that ask for more than a surface reading...

[quote="WildCityWoman"]And here's 'adultery' again . . . Camus must have thought about this a lot

That also might provide some insight into the opening biblical quotation:

Cast me into the sea...
For I know that for my sake
This great tempest is upon you."
JONAH 1:12

For my sake, you are imposed upon. That idea seems to apply to both Jonah and Jonas, both imposing upon others and being imposed upon. Are they being selfish for their own sakes, or were they just doing what they thought they needed to do?