"The Choice", my portrayal of "The Guest" by Albert Camus

An adaption of my favorite short story "The Guest" by Albert Camus that I wrote my English class last year. In my opinion, it is my best piece of writing.

The Choice

 

In my portrayal of Camus’ “The Guest” I explore and attempt to explain the nature of the both the Arab and Daru as they are thrown together by chance and against free will when Daru is ordered to escort the Arab to the prison camp in Tinguit. In the original story,, the Arab remains a mysterious character, his past and future all uncertain. His dialogue is limited and the reader is unable to see his thoughts. However, despite all of this, there is plausible textual evidence to potentially explain how and why each character chose their path. The Arab, not attempting escape when he is able, proves himself to be a decent human being, making one question the crime he is being punished for. He feels guilt for his crime and regrets that others influenced his actions. Daru, lonely in his schoolhouse, takes the prisoner in and welcomes him much like a guest. The Arab admires Daru’s spirit and his passion for life despite the unpleasant situation. He looks up to him, wishing that he too could practice the freedom of making his own decisions with the same ease. From observing Daru, the Arab is forced to think of his actions and soon begins to accept the resulting consequences.

Throughout the text, Daru contemplates on how even though the land is cruel to them, they could not live anywhere else because it is home and all that they know. Based on this observation, I chose to make the Arab feel disconnected from the world around him. He longs for his own customs and ways and this feeling of isolation is what drives him to consider the walk to Tinguit. Further, he comes to realize the angst that would come from living in a world of uncertainty and guilt and as a result, begins to see death as a logical option and means of escape from the problems of which he is faced with. However, his fear of death contrasts against the prior urges, leaving him indecisive as to whether he will walk to Tinguit or escape to the land of the nomads.

***

They came into the night and tied me up with rugged ropes that cut into my flesh. I knew that they would come; I had been expecting their arrival since the dawn after the evening of the event’s occurrence. It had started off as a silly squabble, something that we both would have eventually laughed at. The men surrounded us, laughing as he gave me back the bag of grain for which he had not paid. The men looked up to me, expecting me to defend myself. Their eyes watched me. Then, he touched my wife in a way that caused my blood to pound throughout my body like a drummer marching to the steady beats of battle. The men inched closer, slithering towards me as they fell silent, watching back and forth, waiting for my reaction. “Do it,” the nearest hissed. I pounced on him, tearing at his skin with my chipped nails until my hands came to his fragile neck. The men cried, “Kill him! Kill him!” I felt my arm grab the closest metal object to me, using it to drag the rusty hook across his skin, cringing at the sound of his ripping flesh. My hands were teeth biting into an apple, his blood leaked out like juice. When he had stopped struggling and remained still I spat on the filth of his face. His dirty blood stained my floor. His eyes were empty like drained lamps, kerosene used to the last drop. The rosy blush his cheeks once held begun to fade, like a withered flower shriveling from the peak of its blossom.

As we moved now my tired hands hung loosely at my side, occasionally being yanked up by the Gendarme who paraded lazily on his horse. He took swigs out of a black-leathered flask. My throat was dry, my lips cracked. The walk, while not more then an hour, had been draining with its unsteady ground, pits curving deep into the dirt. Weeds struck up from the soil and caught onto the blankets of wool that wrapped my feet. My eyes stared up at him pleading for rest and water, but he only looked away, laughing and muttering to himself in French. My French was broken, but I was able to make out most of his insulting grunts.  I signed and kept my eyes focused on a small building, shinning with its brick and whitewashed walls. It rested on a steep hill, rising from the plateau that over looked the stirring desert; I hoped it was our destination. I could not see the path; it was covered in freckles of snow and desert dirt, a jungle of weeds tearing in and out of the earth. I followed the man on his horse, like a helpless dog, bound to his owner.

As he climbed the hidden trail, twisting itself up towards building, I kept my head low, ashamed and terrified of what awaited us in this unknown place. When we arrived, a man who towered over us with unshaven hair and wild eyes answered the door. His eyes were red, reflecting madness, but he took me in, inviting me to escape the harrowing cold. He led us into a room where chairs and several desks lined the walls. The Gendarme plopped his body into of the seats. I stood by the window, sneaking out glances into the vast plateau of this new land. I had only been this way several times prior when I was a child. My town was miles away, somewhere west and I rarely found myself venturing from its boundaries. Already I felt like a stranger, torn from his home and thrown into a world of alienation.  The man came to me, holding out tea and then, after speaking to the Gendarme, untied my hands so I could drink. I held the scorching tea to my peeling lips and drank, inhaling the sweet aroma that steamed from it.

The man periodically glanced at me. He was engaged in fast, angry conversation and I was able to pick up little from his hissing French. I only understood that the Gendarme was leaving me with this man, everything else was spoken too quickly. I felt anxious and afraid, not because of the men discussing my fate, but because of the unfamiliarity in my surroundings. I longed for my customs, my language and my people. This tea, while fresh and flavored, was not the same as the bitter drink my wife would prepare for me in the evening. They kept their voices low until the horseman announced in a proud voice a command of which I’m sure the kind man could not deny. He then slit his finger across his throat, sending me into my unbearable past, causing me to shake with fear. They both curiously glanced over at me, sipping their tea, each frustrated with excessive thought. I watched the soldier hand the man a revolver, determination sketched onto his face in deep wrinkles that covered the twinkle in his dark brown eyes. Then, the Gendarme was thrusting a paper and pen into the hands of the wild man who after much argument signed it.

I smiled silently to myself as I watched this, amused by the resistance that this man showed towards the authority of the Gendarme. I longed for such will, for the freedom of choice. My thoughts echoed back to the night of the murder. The barbaric cries of the men were sporadic patterns disrupting the order of my sanity, weaving their sounds into my skull. I wondered for a moment what my choice would have been had they not been present. The humor in my victim’s eyes reined my thoughts and his laughter rang like broken bells pounding in my ears. Guilt poured over me, raining on me like a raging storm. I was helplessly caught in this storm, unable to find shelter, frantically attempting to avoid the electric thunder that shot from the sky.

The soldier saw himself off, slamming the door behind him. The first few moments of silence stung the air with awkwardness. Then the man spoke to me in Arabic, the first person to speak my native tongue to me in weeks. I watched him leave me to lie on a narrow couch in the neighboring room. I spread myself on the floor, closing my eyes, embracing the music of silence. When the man entered again some time later he began to prepare food. I sat patiently, watching him roam through the schoolhouse as he gathered different ingredients.

A light hum whistled from his lips as he did this. He was going about his day quite normally despite having been burdened with this task. Shame suddenly sank itself onto my shoulders, weighing me down. I felt like further trouble thrust upon this man, like littered trash scattered about his home. What struck me as most interesting about him was that even though he had not wanted this task he still treated me respectfully, I felt as if there was a part of him that enjoyed my company. Despite circumstance, he seemed to find a way to be content. I envied his bliss, wishing that I myself could still find life to be worth living.

As he prepared the food, a steam of scents clung to the air, like stubborn smoke herding in flocks of clouds. My stomach growled and shrilled at the scents, cursing them for teasing.

The man sat down, straight across from me and handed me the plate of food. I was confused by his actions, I had expected him to hand me a plate and then to leave. He watched me through curious eyes, looking me up and down.

“And you?” I asked him, motioning with confusion towards the plate he had set before me.

“After you,” he responded, folding his hands and placing them on the table.

I wondered how he acted so calm, so welcoming and kind.

“Are you the judge?” I wondered aloud, thinking that perhaps he was judging me, deciding my punishment.

“No,” he told me, staring down at his hands. “I’m simply keeping you until tomorrow.”

“Why do you eat with me?” I questioned, unsure of his intentions in doing so.

“I am hungry.” He said sternly, ending my series of questioning.

 I nibbled at my plate, thinking that to eat with me he must be lonely. It was one thing for him to accept circumstance and still show happiness, but it was unheard of for a man of his status to eat with a prisoner. Loneliness was the only explanation that I had for his kindness; few visitors must have passed through during such dreadful times. I looked around, taking in the emptiness of the house, the solitude that trudged through the air. We were not so different; I saw it in his eyes the feeling I felt, this bittersweet sensation of being alone. Much like he was isolated on this steep hill, I was isolated from everything I had ever known. I was alone, my thoughts my sole companion. My possessions and home were somewhere to the west, being claimed by a stranger. The stranger’s eyes shone at me, like pits of empty sockets, where if I fell I would continue to fall, for miles deep.

He made my bed, resting it perpendicular to his own and placing on it several thick woolen blankets. I remained standing while he lay down on his own. He stretched and yawned, remaining silent for several moments while his eyes focused on the ceiling.

“Why did you kill him,” he asked me, his eyes bolting towards me. I looked away, blushing with embarrassment, ashamed for my actions. I could not tell this man that I had given in to the command of others for something so small and unimportant, not when he himself questioned the authority of society. I could not look like a coward, not when he was so brave, embarking on the course of life despite his sails being thrown about in the wind.

“He ran away and I ran after him.” I finally told him, shielding him from the truth of my barbarity. “Now what will happen to me?” I asked, certain he would present me with the truth.

“Are you afraid?” he wondered, changing the subject. I did not answer and he turned his eyes from me. “Are you sorry?” he implored. My silence remained. “Lie down there, that’s your bed,” he finally stated with annoyance, pointing out what I had already known. He continued to question me, and I gave no answer.

While I knew that he was not my friend, I felt closeness to him. His nature, I believed was good and had gone uncorrupt by man. He treaded on through the storm of life with poise. I looked up to him; I wanted to be like this man. Around him, I felt brave. Laughter rose to my throat as I remembered the tension between him and the Gendarme after their argument. I could not remember when I had spoken to authority in such a way.

“Come with us.” I pondered aloud. He did not answer me and instead begun to drift into a soundless sleep. My eyes blinking fast, begun to slow down until my lids shut the light from the world and I entered a realm where my wrongdoings were erased and forgotten.

I awoke some time in the night, waking from my wife’s luminous face that danced in my dreams. The moonlight poured into the room, swaying on the floor and into my thoughts. My body rose, lost in a sea of swerving deliberation as I led myself out of the room. I realized then in this moment that I was not trapped here. Food was near, my watcher fast asleep. I could begin to run, fleeing from the scratching hands of death. I tip toed throughout the house, snickering in my head at my sneakiness. When my hand reached for the door I paused. I had lived my life with no free will, did that not deserve consequence? Had I not sinned from doing so? I signed and made my way back, taking a drink of water as I did so. I could not run away. If I ran away this kind man, a man who lived his life like I wish I could, would suffer from my escape. I was going to have to face the consequences of my actions. I had caused a sufficient amount of damage to the innocent; I needed not to invoke more. I laid back down in the nest of the bed, falling in and out of sleep as the light of dawn paraded into the room. Light painted the walls with gleaming strokes of color and I closed my eyes, resting myself for the unknown. When the man shook me I opened them, terrified by the tired smile that unsuccessfully harnessed his angst.

He gave me food and coffee and then led me where I could bathe. The water shivered down my spine, cascading down my back in rushes of cold. I rubbed the dirt from my body. My hands trembled as they picked at my skin. I entered the schoolhouse to find the man throwing on layers of clothing. I pulled on my own and followed his motions towards the door, quivering with frenzy.

“Go,” he commanded, throwing me outside. “I’m coming too,” he told me, before entering his house and shutting the door behind him.

He remained indoors for several minutes. I walked in small circles, leaning my head back into the sun, catching its rays in my mouth. When the man reappeared, he led me down the hill and onto the vastness of the inanimate field, blemished with melting snow.  We trekked through the puddles of slush and wet dirt towards the east horizon. After some time he stopped, guiding me to rest by a rock. I watched him look towards the way we were heading and then glance back in the other direction, frowning as he did so. Unexpectedly, he turned to me, handing me a lumpy, wrapped up package, bulging with unknown objects.

“Take it. There are dates, sugar and bread in there. There are one thousand francs too.” I took it, engulfed by bewilderment. The man pointed ahead, “Now look, there’s the way to Tinguit. You have a two-hour walk. At Tinguit you’ll find the administration and the police. They are expecting you.” He then turned and pointed another way. “That’s the trail across the plateau. In a days walk from here you’ll find pastureland and the first nomads. They’ll take you in and shelter you according to their law.” He finished speaking and glared at me.

“Listen,” I started. I had already made my decision; I could not allow this man or anyone else to suffer from my actions. I knew that he would be in trouble if he did not complete this task.

“No be quiet. Now I’m leaving you.” He said, his voice shaking but his face commanding and certain. He turned to leave and did not look back. I stood by the rock, package in hand, stunned and static.

I watched the two paths, looking back and forth, clinging onto my supply of food. Life or death. Punishment or guilt. I now understood why he had left me despite his task. This was not a decision he could make. This was my life. I understood that I had choice and for the first time in my life I was not afraid to exercise my own free will. This choice, I knew, would have to be made without the influence of others. I glanced at death and then looked towards the possibility of life. These nomads, while living so freely in the wild, were not what I had known and held dear. They could commit a century of kindness to me and yet their actions were incomparable to the touch of my wife’s silky hands or the innocence in her voice. My children’s laughter would no longer be heard; my customs and perhaps even my own language would all be forgotten. I would be a changed person, living a different life. The idea of the unknown made me tremble with fear. I had been given a great amount of responsibility in my life, but I was not alone in my leadership. Most often, I would follow the advice of others. Now, I was forever a loner, desolate. I felt like a murderer who sat in the darkness of their cell, holding the keys to escape but terrified of disgrace as she stalked the outside of these bars, trapping me in my cage.

My life had always been laid out for me, my path clearly written in the evening sky. Now, my path unknown, I felt angst. Nothing was certain, I would have to re-build everything, take paint and brush out my life in strokes. I was no artist and I feared art. The complexity of art was too vivid for the simplicity of my imagination. My options were limited, a life of uncertainty or death. Death, it shone down on me from the sun, blinding my eyes. I could not look directly into the sun, much like I could not walk to my own death. I could not accept death, not when life was an option. I turned towards the land of the nomads, racing in frolicking skips, each strut leading me closer. As I inched in the direction, my foot caught in the ground, tripping my face into the melting snow. Blushing, I stood up, stretching my spine proudly towards to the sky, preparing to step back towards the nomads but then I turned the opposite way, once again facing Tinguit. Was I really running away? My head bowed down, surrendering itself to guilt.

I found myself walking towards Tinguit, its prisoners calling out to me, telling me to save myself. Their souls glided past my face, carried by the wind. I could not live in the unknown. I could not live with guilt. The time had come for me accept that each action comes with consequence. I had lived my life without passion and morality, never embracing the freedom I had to become who I truly was. I asked myself, is the life of a cowardly follower a life that is worth living? Tears strolled down my checks, splashing through the melting snow. Though life shouted at me, I heard no more then a whisper. I thought of death and how I would die. I was sure that they would punish me in the way that I had murdered. I hesitated, thinking about the carving of a knife on my throat and the pain that would pour from my wound before I was granted death. My head turned once again towards survival while my feet pointed towards Tinguit. I was caught, trapped and helpless. I stood there for some time, thrown back and forth between my options. I could not choose my path; I could not make a decision. I walked in-between the two, obsessed with uncertainty. For the only thing I knew and understood in the world was the kindness that the man had shown me, and the bravery that pumped with his heart. He deserved to live. May he live until his mind longs for the peace it is worthy of, I prayed to the heavens. I walked back towards the rock, sitting down with my hands resting on my palms, searching for answers in the sea of the desert. I was a sailor, I was astray, and my ships sails had lost their seamen. I was drowning, in the tide of uncertainty and the waves of the unknown. 

***

The themes “The Guest” incorporates are primarily centered on existentialism and the absurd. Existentialists believed that ones fate lies in the individual. Our lives are ours to make and we have the power to exercise free will. As a result, the choices that we make reflect who we are as people. Free will can be viewed as both good and bad. It is good that we are in control of our destinies and not subject to fate, but consequently we find ourselves burdened with the responsibility that comes in doing so. As we unravel the threads of life, we are constantly faced with uncertainty, never knowing if the right choices are indeed being made. However, existentialists chose to embrace the unknown and accept it as a part of life.

Irony plays a vital role in the story as it emphasizes the idea of “absurdum” and its connection to life. While Daru remained mutual, neither leading the Arab towards or away from death, he is still threatened by the Arabs men in the end as they have assumed that Daru brought the Arab to Tinguit. Though I could not reveal this threat at the end, I chose to involve irony by having the Arab wish a long life upon Daru. Most are raised according to the idea that good deeds will be rewarded, and bad punished. Camus questions this ideology. If a consequence is not a logical result of an action, is there any order in life? Is there any logic? However, despite this absurdity and uncertainty, life is still worth living. Daru has accepted the absurd and still believes that life should be lived, as he also understands that he has free will. The Arab is the opposite and therefore admires Daru.

Based on these ideas, it can be concluded that there are several reasons as to why Daru did not full- fill his task in escorting the Arab. The first and most important reason is that it was not his choice to make. It was the Arab’s life and therefore his responsibility. Secondly, Daru understood that he himself had choices. Though he was commanded to turn the prisoner in, he also realized that he could choose not to. Finally, Daru did not wish to follow “order” because he was un-sure of the situation. He did not know who the Arab was, the crime he committed or why he committed it and therefore could not make a decision that affected another’s fate so drastically.

The Arab, perhaps the most mysterious character in the story is left to make his own decision and for the first time in his life, he must decide without the help of others. Overwhelmed by this responsibility, he cannot decide between embracing a life in the unknown or walking to Tinguit; of which he is certain would result in death. The Arab faces more then uncertainty if choosing to live amongst the nomads, he will also find himself living with the shame of his past actions. Already his guilt is over- whelming and he is smothered in misery, constantly remembering his past and the night of the murder, which changed his life so drastically. Choosing to remain true to Camus’s ending, I decided to leave the reader in the unknown; the Arabs decision never being made. The story concludes with him contemplating his options, pondering them deeply but still unsure of which path to take. 

Reviews

[InkSlinger]

Super to say the least, however I have come to expect nothing less... Very engaging storyline.. a great piece of writing, all woven tightly with details that keep you wanting more.. the pace was perfect..

[Cafe Reader]

I honestly enjoyed this! Great writing!

[Calypso]

Just wonderful

[KAREN]

An excellent read!!

[Goodbye]

This is nothing short of masterpiece. I was struck at how you wove his inner dialogue with the texture of the story. It was almost meditative, yet engagingly so.

Brava!

[Liza]

this took so much discipline and imagination, i enjoyed the details, the contrast and the tension building - you are very talented.

[Coyote Poetry]

You are a gifted writer. This story was amazing. I will save and read again. I like the complete story. The conversation and interaction made the story come alive. A outstanding story. Thank you.
Coyote

[Machiavelli]

Hey this is great it's really interesting ;)

[AlisshalovesBrandon]

wow i really really liked it!!