The night I cracked open The Fall, I was halfway through a bottle of cheap bourbon, sitting in a room lit by nothing but the streetlamp outside.
I was at one of those crossroads in life, the kind where everything feels like it’s going off-track.
A lonely man with too much time and not enough direction.
The kind of man who thinks a good book can fix things—though you know deep down, the pages won’t do a damn thing to make you feel better.
It’s like lighting a cigarette in the rain, hoping somehow it’ll stay lit.
But it doesn’t.
I’d heard of Camus before—hell, I was that guy who always pretended to know the existentialists.
I’d read Sartre, pretended I understood the absurd.
But The Fall? I was just reaching for it, desperate for something to give me answers.
I wasn’t looking for salvation, but maybe some clarity, some sense of relief from the weight pressing on my chest.
So, I started reading, knowing damn well it wouldn’t be the answer I wanted. And, damn, I wasn’t wrong.
1. The Fall and the Void Inside Us All
Clamence—this French lawyer-turned-philosopher—was me, in a way.
The guy who thought he had it all figured out but was just as lost as everyone else.
There was something about him that felt… familiar. He was a man who had once believed in something—morality, justice, maybe even the idea that he could make a difference.
But now, he was just a shell, talking about his fall from grace, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how much I understood him.
I had been chasing something for years, like a dog chasing its own tail, thinking that one day I’d catch it.
But here I was, a lonely man, trying to convince myself I was doing alright when, deep down, I knew the truth: we all fall.
Every damn one of us.
It’s funny—people think existentialism is all about rebellion, about defying the absurd.
But it’s not. It’s about realizing the absurdity and still choosing to exist anyway.
Camus knew this, and so did Clamence. There was a hollow void where my ambition used to be, and I could almost hear the echo of it while reading his confessions.
2. Clamence and the Mind That Can’t Stop Thinking
It wasn’t just that Clamence was a man of high intellect who spent most of his time pretending to be a moral compass for others.
He was a man who, like me, was cursed with a mind that never stopped—an overactive, self-aware brain that chews on everything.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever felt that feeling of constantly being at odds with yourself.
It’s like watching a film where the protagonist is an idiot, and you’re just sitting there, screaming at him, “You don’t have to do that. Stop it. It’s going to make everything worse.”
And the idiot on-screen? That’s you.
I remember sitting alone at a bar in my thirties—empty glass in hand, cigarette between my fingers—just ruminating on my failures.
A girl had just walked away from me, uninterested, and I was convinced it was because I couldn’t find the right words.
I mean, sure, maybe it was because I’d spent the last half hour talking about Nietzsche when I should’ve just asked her about her day, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
So I drank, like Clamence drank to numb the self-loathing, all the while justifying it as if it made any sense.
That’s where Camus got it right. The more you justify, the deeper you fall. And I’d fallen a long time ago.
3. Confession: The Burden of Guilt
There’s something deeply uncomfortable about confessing your sins to someone, anyone. Camus takes it a step further.
Clamence isn’t confessing to a priest. He’s confessing to a man he’s never met.
This strange interaction in a dingy Amsterdam bar felt like something I knew—those late-night ramblings I’d make to a complete stranger after a few too many drinks.
I’ve done that. Everyone has.
One night, I found myself talking to the bartender at my favorite dive. It was close to 3 a.m. The place was empty, except for the two of us.
I had just finished a series of self-righteous thoughts about how life was pointless and everything I’d done was wasted.
I confessed it all. I wasn’t expecting absolution. Hell, I didn’t even want it. But the bartender, who barely even looked up, just nodded, wiping down the counter.
He didn’t care. I didn’t care. But somewhere in that exchange, I found comfort in the acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as alone as I thought.
Clamence is trapped in the same loop. He confesses his sins, not because he wants forgiveness, but because he wants to understand why he’s always been this way.
But the truth? There’s no answer. It’s a cruel joke, and Camus knew it. Guilt is a shadow that clings to you no matter how much you try to outrun it.
4. The Mirror: Reflecting on the Ugly Truth
In The Fall, the mirror is everywhere. Clamence talks about it, but I’ve felt it, too. It’s the moment when you look into your own eyes in the mirror and realize you don’t know who the hell you are anymore.
When I was younger, I had big dreams—hell, I was going to be somebody.
I had a vision of success and meaning. But then life throws its punches.
Slowly, you stop looking in mirrors, because you know what you’ll see: a version of yourself you don’t recognize, someone you barely like.
I remember waking up one morning—with a splitting headache—and staring at the man in the mirror.
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, or why I kept making the same mistakes.
I couldn’t tell if I was proud of my decisions or disgusted by them.
The Fall made me realize: this man staring back?
He’s a product of his choices.
And the worst part is, I didn’t even know how to fix it.
I could read all the philosophy I wanted, but nothing would change the fact that I was a broken man who’d forgotten how to be whole.
5. The City: A Reflection of the Self
Amsterdam in The Fall is a place of decay. It’s a city where everything is washed in the shadows, a place full of lost souls.
Clamence walks the streets, and I could feel the weight of it.
Amsterdam wasn’t just a city; it was a state of mind.
You see, I’ve spent time in cities like that—places where everything feels sticky, like you’re walking through someone else’s regret.
The streets are full of ghosts, and the only thing that separates you from them is a thin layer of skin.
But that’s all.
I’ve sat in dark corners of bars in cities that don’t know me, drinking my way through the loneliness.
I’ve wandered through towns where the cobblestones felt like they were sinking under the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
Cities, like people, are full of memories—good ones, bad ones, ones you wish you could forget.
But they all blend together in the end. Just like us.
6. Redemption? There’s No Such Thing
The last thing I expected from Camus was redemption.
But that’s the thing about existentialism—it doesn’t let you off the hook.
In The Fall, Clamence searches for redemption like it’s a treasure chest buried deep in the earth, but all he finds is more dirt.
The more he tries to fix things, the worse it gets. It’s like a drunk trying to sober up by drinking more—nothing ever works.
Redemption is a myth, and Clamence’s journey proves it.
I had a friend once—smart guy, really smart. He told me once that he was looking for meaning, like he was on some sacred quest.
He wanted to feel like his life mattered. But he spent so much time searching for it that he missed the point: life doesn’t need meaning to be lived.
It just is. I watched him spiral for years, and by the end, he was drinking away the last of his hopes.
He never found what he was looking for.
Maybe that’s the lesson of Camus: stop looking for something to fix you. You can’t be fixed. You just have to keep moving.
Final Thoughts
You know, reading The Fall made me realize something I wasn’t ready to admit before: the real problem isn’t the world—it’s us.
It’s the way we try to justify our flaws, the way we hide behind the mask of morality, all the while crumbling inside.
Camus lays it out clear as day. We all fall, and we all try to redeem ourselves.
But the truth is, we’re just walking around, pretending we’ve got it all together, when in reality, we’re barely holding on.
Maybe we’re supposed to fall. Maybe that’s just the deal.
The fall’s the real truth.
I don’t know.
But I’ll tell you this: next time you stand in front of that mirror, just take a minute to admit what you are.
You don’t have to fix anything. You just have to live with it.
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