Clerambault had a
simple-hearted confidence in his fellow-man, and nothing could have
been better suited to Camus' aggressive pessimism, which it kept in
working order. The greater part of his visits was spent in reducing
Clerambault's illusions to fragments, but they had as many lives as
a cat, and every time he came it had to be done over again. This
irritated Camus, but secretly pleased him for he needed a pretext
constantly renewed to think the world bad, and men a set of imbeciles.
Above all he had no mercy on politicians; this Government employee
hated Governments, though he would have been puzzled to say what
he would put in their places. The only form of politics that he
understood was opposition. He suffered from a spoiled life and
thwarted nature. He was a peasant's son and born to raise grapes, or
else to exercise his authoritative instincts over the field labourers,
like a watch-dog. Unfortunately, diseases of the vines interfered and
also the pride of a quill-driver; the family moved to town, and now he
would have felt it a derogation to return to his real nature, which
was too much atrophied, even if he had wished it. Not having found his
true place in society, he blamed the social order, serving it, as do
millions of functionaries, like a bad servant, an underhand enemy.
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