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At the heart
of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills,
the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this
very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we
had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost
paradise. The primitive hostility of the world rises up
to face us across millennia. For a second we cease to
understand it because for centuries we have understood
in it solely the images and designs that we had attributed
to it beforehand, because henceforth we lack the power to make use
of that artifice.The world evades us because it becomes itself again.
That stage scenery masked by habit becomes again what it is.
It withdraws at a distance from us. Just as there are days when
under the familiar face of a woman, we see as a stranger her
we had loved months or years ago, perhaps we shall
come even to desire what suddenly leaves us so alone.
But the time has not yet come. Just one thing: that
denseness and that strangeness of the world is the absurd.
Men, too, secrete the inhuman. At certain moments
destiny, its uselessness becomes evident. No code of
ethics and no effort are justifiable a priori in the face of
the cruel mathematics that command our condition.
--Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
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