Author: Daniel Harding

Part I: Prometheus, Nemesis, and the artists’ rebellion  

In May 1952, Hannah Arendt boldly claimed that Albert Camus was ‘the best man now in France’ with his ‘head and shoulders above the other intellectuals.’¹ While Arendt’s laudatory letter signifies Camus’ perceived virtuousness, it lends insight into a defining aspect of Camus’ political thought. Camus aimed to present a nuanced vision of humanism, one that traversed an age of ideological extremities, and which could arrive at a modest politics, liberated from the dogmas of Europe in the twentieth century. The political ethic he asserted was one defined by the concept of ‘measuredness’ and ‘limitedness.’² And, while an ardent and outspoken critic of fascism, nationalism, and totalitarianism in the build-up to and during the Second World War, he became nonetheless troubled by what was considered by some to be their antidote.

It was following the end of the war that he became critical of the ideologies with which he was previously associated, namely Communism and Marxism. He saw such theories as dehumanising, favouring abstract theory that debased man and allowed for the same evil and tyranny that they condemned to be repeated. For Camus, post-enlightenment European ideologies, be it that of nationalism, fascism, or communism, had developed theories that were ambivalent to human life and dignity in favour of grand goals of utopia or unremitting progress, often appealing to teleological histories and justifying violence. Camus’ vision, nonetheless, was still of a left-wing humanist tied to a romantic vision of anarcho-syndicalism and trade unionism. (In the subsequent article, I will touch upon how Camus used the Greek myths of Nemesis and Prometheus, as well as his conception of art, beauty, and nature, to sketch a nuanced politics that was free from the flaws of competing political ideologies prevalent at his time of writing.)

Camus was thus left to create a politics that did not glorify history, allow for violence or terror, dehumanise man or bring about tyranny. In avoiding the pitfalls of modern European ideologies, Camus presented a politics that asserted a respect for human life and dignity and an adherence to limits, limits with which he began defining this measured humanism: ‘The goal, in short, will be to define the conditions for a modest political philosophy, that is, a philosophy free of all messianic elements and devoid of any nostalgia for an earthly paradise.’³ The starting point for this modest politics was, however, a precarious one, as he noted, saying, ‘our [his] age marks the end of ideology. The atomic bombs prevents ideology.’⁴ Subsequently, Camus forged a politics that was deeply tied to a conception of limits and measure, connected to the ancient Greeks and a sense of Mediterranean sensibility. From this, he painted a concept of true rebellion that was deeply connected to art, beauty, literature, and nature. This leads us to unwrap the importance of love and compassion in Camus’ philosophy, which correlates to a politics of unity, solidarity, and brotherhood. Lastly, Camus’ humanism attempted to overcome the despair of nihilism, in turn offering a source of hope and inspiring action against the absurdity of existence and the suffering of man.

The concepts of rebellion and revolt, both essential to Camus’ humanist politics, can be understood with respect to this use of Greek mythology, with the myth of Prometheus and the myth of Nemesis both integral to his formulation of what rebellion should look like. ‘In order to exist,’ he wrote, ‘man must rebel, but rebellion must respect the limits that it discovers in itself — limits where minds meet and, in meeting, begin to exist.’⁵ It was then, Prometheus, the god of fire, that represented, for Camus, revolt and humanism. Nemesis, the goddess of measure, represented the limits that needed to be placed on it. This constant tension between the Promethean and Nemesis allowed for a harmonious balance, with both forces appealing to different needs of human existence.

Thus, Camus was trying to reclaim a true Promethean humanism that obeyed the limits it would set. He argued that modernity had betrayed Promethean humanism: ‘If Prometheus were to reappear, modern man would treat him as the gods did long ago: they would nail him to a rock, in the name of the humanism he was the first to symbolize.’⁶ Prometheus, man’s symbol of rebellion against the gods, was led astray by the ‘perversion of the ideas of the Enlightenment — its tragic idolization of modern man.’⁷ Modern Europe, fuelled by a Promethean passion, had allowed man to reproach and murder his fellow man. Man had lost sight of Prometheus’ original rebellion, which was an act of defiance, an act of a ‘hero who loved men enough to give them fire and liberty, technology and art.’⁸ This is perhaps also why Camus felt the necessity to remind us that ‘Prometheus, the first rebel, denies the right to punish.’⁹ The modern man, in Europe, having given in to the dangers of excess, perpetuated a cycle of violence, retribution, and revenge. In juxtaposition to this, Prometheus was aware of the limits of rebellion and action, remaining faithful to rebellion as resistance to injustice. 

So, while Prometheus, representing for Camus a humanist revolutionary, served as the basis for a rebellion against Gods and the human condition, it was Nemesis that was required to rein in its excesses. She, ‘the goddess of moderation, not of vengeance, is always watching’ he notes, and ‘chastises, ruthlessly, all those who go beyond the limit.’¹⁰ For Camus, Europe had for too long ignored Nemesis and the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, for whom ‘thought was always based on the idea of limits.’¹¹ The politics of rebellion was not then defined simply by a concept of moderation, but rather by a constant need for balance and harmony. Here, Camus’ praise of the Greeks, who ‘gave everything its share, balancing light with shade,’ juxtaposes his condemnation of a modern Europe that ‘eager for the conquest of totality, is the daughter of excess.’¹² Subsequently, Promethean passion had to be balanced by Nemesis, and for rebellion to reject excess it had to ‘find excess in moderation.’¹³ Therefore, once these limits have been recognised, we can turn to our true sources of rebellion, and for Camus, create a modest politics that provided a ‘Third Way’ in opposition to the polarised politics of communism and capitalism.

Camus invoked a form of humanism that implores rebellion through the means of beauty and art. In essence, he believed in an aesthetic humanism that provided a true source of human resistance to oppression, avoiding the humanitarian ideology of the eighteenth century that led to ‘the bloodstained gallows…and the executioners of today.’¹⁴ Art and beauty were essential to rebellion because they adhered to Camus’ concept of measure. Essentially, for Camus, the artist…recognizes limits the historical mind ignores,’ and as a consequence, they aim for liberty rather than tyranny.¹⁵ Additionally, art allowed man to return to the original roots of rebellion.

 Here it must be noted that Camus was critical of many forms of art, namely that of art for art’s sake and explicitly political art, such as socialist realism, and as such these were irrelevant to his concept of rebellion and humanism, and it was only what he saw as a true form of authentic art that correlates to rebellion.¹⁶ Firstly, Camus rejected art for art’s sake as he saw it as self-indulgent, symptomatic of a self-absorbed society. Such artistic expression was seen as irresponsible by Camus and was at best ambivalent to the cruel realities of ordinary people, whether their material condition. Artists who produced art for art’s sake were, for Camus, ignoring reality in favour of an artificial form of art that only relates to the artist’s own solitary outlook and indulgences. Conversely, political art, and namely socialist realism, where culpable for a different artistic crime. Such political art was flawed because it “sacrifices art for an end that is alien to art.” This is because socialist realism attempted to portray art that was not actually corresponding to reality, as no time in the past or present, for Camus, had ever been truly socialist. Therefore, socialist realism was a contradiction in terms. Quite prudently, he also acknowledges that such art will always inevitably be some form of propaganda art and thus could not serve a revolutionary cause. Socialist realism becomes at fault for the same reason as bourgeois idealism in art, in that it no longer corresponds to the reality of the masses. As such, true rebellion had to seek a new aesthetic art form to serve its cause. This leads us to Camus’ sort of “third way” vision of art. 

Camus’ rejection of the historical mind necessitated a turn towards art as a true source of rebellion, i.e., ‘we have to live and let live in order to create what we are.’¹⁷ Camus equated nature and beauty as a source of true rebellion, arguing that in a world where ‘we are told to choose between God and history,’ he felt ‘this terrible desire to choose, the earth and trees.’¹⁸ Artists, who learn from nature and beauty, are thus able to rebel creatively against reality whilst not negating it. The artist embraces reality and, in his creative rebellion, tries to change it, but in doing so accepts his limits in that ‘he cannot affirm the total hideousness of the world.’¹⁹ Essentially, or Camus, the best works of art have an element of measure in them, as the works of the ancient Greeks or novels of Tolstoy are ones ‘that balance reality and the rebellion that mankind places in opposition to that reality.’²⁰ In essence, his third way sought to show that art is a form of art that did not negate the society from which it sprung but does not endorse it fully. Authentic art form, Camus was an act of revolt against the realities of the world, but a revolt that was tempered by the actual realities from which it was produced. As a result, the artist’s rebellion was a modest but ambitious one as it struck a balance between extremes and offered a constructive method of altering our reality.

For Camus, art, nature, and beauty are what unite man, as they illuminate mankind’s shared experience. Instead of differences emphasised by fascist and nationalist ideologies, the collective experience of beauty and nature grounded man and connected him. As Camus argues, ‘the sea, the rain, our needs and desires, the struggle against death — these are the things that unite us.’²¹ True rebellion, which for him is a constructive project, is intrinsically tied to compassion for the ordinary man and the oppressed. This is why Camus praised creative rebellion as ‘the artist’s rebellion against reality…[which] contains the same affirmation as the spontaneous rebellion of the oppressed.’²² Artistic rebellion, by its very nature, is a humanist one that reaffirms human dignity in an enduring manner. Art fostered solidarity and could not serve the politics of ideology, because ‘the lesson artists learn from beauty, if it is honestly learned, is not the lesson of egotism but of solid brotherhood.’²³ By allowing men to share in their individual experience of reality and the absurd, true art led towards compassion and solidarity with our fellow man. Literature and art stimulate unity and create rebellion because they ‘are allied to the beauty of the world or of its inhabitants against the powers of death and oblivion.²⁴ Camus’ belief in art and beauty as the true source of rebellion is formed by adherence to limits, measure, and balance, but equally because of a deeply personal affiliation with the common man and belief in solidarity.

Thus, by Camus’ reckoning, art and nature instruct man in the manners of brotherhood. But so does the absurd. Art, beauty, and nature enshrine our understanding of the universe and the feeling of the absurd. However, it is the shared experience of the absurd that unites man as a collective and forms the basis of Camus’ politics of unity. Here, it is necessary to quickly pause and understand what it was Camus was referring to when he spoke of the absurd. Essentially, for Camus, the absurd is the realisation and confrontation between man’s innate desire for reason and meaning in a universe that is indifferent and meaningless. How does the Absurd relate to Camus’ idea of art, beauty or nature, you may wonder? Well, it is precisely because such things illuminate our understanding of our own current predicament. They allow for self-reflection and introspection that allows us to greater understand the nature of the absurd. To produce art or enjoy it, or appreciate the beauty of the world and nature, was, for Camus, an attempt for us to cope with and contest the alienating feeling that the absurd can have on us at an individual level. 

This feeling of the absurd, i.e., the deadening silence of an indifferent world, coupled with our desire for meaning, is a universal experience for all humans in Camus’ eyes. Consequentially, he argues, that whilst ‘in absurdist experience suffering is individual. . . from the moment that a movement of rebellion begins, suffering is seen as a collective experience — as the experience of everyone.’²⁵ Camus’ compassion is based on the premise that man shares in the same suffering as that of Sisyphus: ‘the workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks and this fate is no less absurd.’²⁶ By recognising the universal in the individual experience of the absurd, by sharing in our Sisyphean task, Camus’ ‘absurdism became a kind of humanism.’²⁷ It is the individual experience of the absurd that drives humans towards unity and humanist politics embedded in compassion. Each individual enduring the absurdist wager is moved towards solidarity. This brings us to Camus’ famous: ‘I rebel — therefore we exist,’²⁸ which perfectly captures Camus’ measured humanism. Our individual protests against the absurdity of existence, oppression, the human condition, and injustice, in the ‘I rebel’ connote our shared humanity, and the need for solidarity in rebellion, i.e., the ‘we exist.’ 

Through a form of measured humanism, Camus’ presented a political ethic which was ignited by a Promethean humanism but tempered by the sensibility of Nemesis. Additionally, the concept of measured rebellion that emanates from these two figures when conjoined translates into his concept of art as a form of revolt, since authentic and rebellious art must at once affirm reality whilst also challenging it and thus adhere to some form of measuredness. From this, I hope to have shown what I believe to be an essential element of Camus’ thought that is often glazed over or ignored. Camus allusion to the myths of Prometheus and Nemesis as well as the artists rebellion, allows us to see his attempt to weave a delicate but radical political vision that sought to erase from it the faults of both the Left and Right of his times, whilst also being deeply entrenched in his understanding of the Absurd as global phenomenon that afflicted all individuals and thus would bring unity and solidarity. 

Daniel is a recent graduate from UCL and Queen Mary’s University of London with a master’s in the history of political thought and intellectual history. He is currently an English language teacher in Phrae, Thailand. His main intellectual interests span the broad history of ideas.

1. Hannah Arendt to Heinrich Blücher, 1 May 1952. Arendt, A. and Blücher, H. Within Four Walls: The Correspondence Between Hannah Arendt and Heinrich Blücher, 1936-1968 edited by Lotte Kohler.(New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2000), p.162. ↩︎
2. Warren, Thomas, H. “On the Mistranslation of La Measure in Camus’s Political Thought.” Journal of the History of Philosophy vol.30, no.1 (1992), pp.123-130 shows Camus’s concept of ‘la measure’ has often been wrongly translated or misunderstood as ‘moderation’ and would better be interpreted as a concept of ‘measuredness’, ‘limitedness’ or ‘proportion’.  ↩︎
3. Camus, Albert. “Neither Victims nor Executioners: Saving Bodies” (November 20, 1946) Camus at Combat, Writing 1944-1947 edited by Jacqueline Lévi-Valensi and translated by Arthur Goldhammer (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006) p.261  ↩︎
4. Camus, Albert. Travels in the Americas: Notes and Impressions of a New World, edited by Alice Kaplan and translated by Ryan Bloom. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2023) p.52  ↩︎
5. Camus, Albert. The Rebel. translated by Anthony Bower (London: Penguin, 2013) p.9  ↩︎
6. Camus, Albert. “Prometheus in the Underworld.” Personal Writings translated by Ellen Conroy Kennedy and Justin O’Brien. (London: Penguin Books, 2020) p.149  ↩︎
7. Ohana, David. “Mediterranean Humanism.” Mediterranean Historical Review, vol. 18, no. 1, (2003),
   p.63 ↩︎
8. Camus, Albert. “Prometheus in the Underworld.” Personal Writings translated by Ellen Conroy Kennedy and Justin O’Brien. (London: Penguin Books, 2020) p.149 ↩︎
9. Camus. The Rebel p.187 ↩︎
10. Camus, Albert. “Helen’s Exile.” Personal Writings translated by Ellen Conroy Kennedy and Justin
    O’Brien. (London: Penguin Books, 2020) p.160 ↩︎
11. Ibid. pp.159-160 ↩︎
12. Ibid. p.160 ↩︎
13. Camus, Albert. Notebooks II, 1935- 1942 translated by Justin O’Brien. (Alfred. A Knopf: New York,
    1963) p.85 ↩︎
14. Camus, Albert. “Reflections on the Guillotine.” Committed Writings translated by Justin O’Brien and
    Sandra Smith. (London: Penguin Books, 2020) p.92 ↩︎
15. Camus. “Helen’s Exile.’ p.163 ↩︎
16. Camus, Albert. “The Nobel Speeches: Create Dangerously.” Committed Writings translated by Justin
    O’Brien and Sandra Smith. (London: Penguin Books, 2020), especially pp.116-123; for further
    elaboration on Camus’s conception of art, see: LeBlanc, John Randolph. “Art and Politics in Albert
    Camus: Beauty as Defiance and Art as a Spiritual Quest.” Literature and Theology, vol.13, no.2 (1999),
    pp.126-148 ↩︎
17. Camus. The Rebel. p.197 ↩︎
18. Camus, Albert. Carnets, 1942-1951 translated by Philip Thody. (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1966)
    p.80 ↩︎
19. Camus. The Rebel. p.203 ↩︎
20. Camus. “Create Dangerously.” p.126 ↩︎
21. Ibid. p.117 ↩︎
22. Camus. The Rebel. p.202 ↩︎
23. Ibid. p.128 ↩︎
24. Ibid. p.211 ↩︎
25. Ibid. pp.9-10 ↩︎
26. Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus, translated by Justin O’Brien. (London: Penguin Books, 2005)
    p.117 ↩︎
27. Todd. Albert Camus: A Life. p.145 ↩︎
28. Camus. The Rebel. p.10 ↩︎