The Myth of Sisyphus

Don Juan seduces women without reserve. He knows he’s selfish; he lives for quantity, not quality; he doesn’t try to be a saint. His understanding of life’s futility gives him room to love each woman fully without trying to make that love eternal. He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t indulge in regret, “that other form of hope” (72).

Books teach that great love is universal, but the feeling of love for a given person is unique to that person. To bind a lover forever in one experience of love is a disservice. Don Juan knows that the deepest love can’t last, so he doesn’t prolong it: “There is no noble love but that which recognizes itself to be both short-lived and exceptional” (74). To share oneself intimately with many partners may be the less selfish route.

Many believe Don Juan should be punished; in fact, he expects it and the ridicule that comes with it, and he expects old age to be a “horror.” His punishers will be those who despise him for living outside the strictures of their beliefs. Perhaps Don Juan will punish himself by becoming a monk and worshipping a god he doesn’t believe in. He won’t reminisce about old loves; instead, he’ll think of “a noble, soulless land in which he recognizes himself” (76), the desert of meaninglessness where he has lived all along.

Actors are drawn to many roles; they want to experience the variety those roles represent. The fame from each performance, though, is fleeting. In fact, all human effort is ephemeral—the writer hopes his works will bring him lasting fame, but books turn to dust—and the actor therefore revels in an endless procession of temporary performances.

A stage actor in three hours creates a character that, in real life, would take a lifetime to build; after a number of performances, the actor moves on to a new character. To quickly construct a remarkable one, the actor uses body and speech to reveal what is usually hidden in normal life; the performance “breaks the spell chaining that soul, and at last the passions can rush onto their stage” (80).

The greatest performances bring out the absurdity of the character’s predicament. Actors develop a way of expressing absurdity that becomes their trademark. The Catholic Church condemned theatrical works and excommunicated actors precisely because they took audiences into the ephemeral now and away from their duty to contemplate eternity: “A mind foolish enough to prefer a comedy to eternity has lost its salvation” (82).

Having “died” on stage countless times, the actor is well aware of the shortness of life. When real death comes, the actor faces as if onstage, with equanimity.

The conqueror or adventurer knows that we can do nothing truly meaningful, but we can still take action. Such a person knows more about what’s real in life than the armchair philosopher. Thus, the conqueror doesn’t stand apart from the short time of life on Earth but mobilizes to join it in all its violence. The conqueror revels in the power to act here and now.

Most rebellions are futile, but that very futility makes for greatness. It’s easy to believe in an eternally wonderful afterlife, but it’s much harder to struggle against the troubles of this life, especially with the knowledge that the effort will probably fail. The power of life comes from its short time; in battle, “Taut faces, threatened fraternity, such strong and chaste friendship among men—these are the true riches because they are transitory” (88).

The conqueror stands against the authority of others, denying the eternal and the churches that lay claim to it. At least both agree that death is the “supreme abuse”; this is why most cemeteries look awful.

Lovers, actors, and conquerors are extreme examples of an attitude available to everyone. Though they are “without a kingdom,” their knowledge of absurdity “gives them a royal power” (91).