It sounds like the self-confessed antagonistic society of the next Dan Brown installment, soon to be hitting the shelves of a bookstore near you. However, the Vienna Circle is anything but.
In 1922, German philosopher, Moritz Schlick took charge of a series of long-standing meetings at the University of Vienna, which had begun nearly two decades before, between some of the brightest European minds on science and mathematics. Indeed, the main focus of the meetings was to debate the emerging discoveries and theories of physics, in particular, those of a certain Albert Einstein. The organisation became formerly known as the Circle under Schlick's guidance and set to discussing the philosophical implications of the twentieth century scientific revolutions. From these discussions was born a new school of philosophy that went on to profoundly influence ethical thought for the following decades: logical positivism.
Loosely defined as a school that combines empirical and rationalist views to deduce the relevance of mathematical and linguistic logic in epistemology, logical positivism rejected many of philosophy's previous doctrines. This in many ways reflects the ideology of modernism and that of Nietzsche, radicalising philosophy by dismissing widely accepted beliefs. For example, theories regarding the existence of God and the nature of history were disregarded as meaningless to the well-being of mankind. Thus, I think the school also partly incorporates the existentialist mentality towards actively rebelling against social dogma.
Philosophy, according to the Circle, should not itself be a doctrine for interpreting the world, but a method of scientific interpretation. In a way therefore, it was merely a means of assisting science and the discoveries that it seemed continuously now to be making. Such discoveries involved challenging a set or several sets of previously held facts. Here lies the key to scientific revolution; new theories occasionally contradict not only our beliefs, but universally acknowledged truths. The most famous, of course, was the discovery that Planet Earth was not flat at all - and indeed, as Sinatra famously sung, 'they all laughed at Christopher Columbus when he said the world was round!' In Thomas Kuhn's book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962), challenging basic assumptions is referred to as a 'paradigm shift'. Logical positivsm acknowledged that science always has a new theory or concept to discover, which will either challenge the previous paradigm, or lend to developing it. The thought that we, as a race, will never fully understand the world around us is a sad, but also somehow comforting one. After all, where would we go if we knew all there was to know? Humans thrive on striving for new bounds and learning new answers to life's mysteries - why else would we be at university!
Perhaps the most significant strand of logical positivism is the study of meta-ethics, which tackles the question: Can moral claims be true or false?
Those who answer no, are non-cognitivists, believing that moral claims are not statements and so cannot be right or wrong. They may be split into three categories of emotivism (moral claims are just expressions of emotions), prescriptivism (moral claims are mere reasons for action) and expressivism (moral claims are simply one's expressions of widely accepted social norms).
Conversely, those who answer yes, are cognitivists, believing that they are in fact individual statements that specifically reflect the nature of our personalities. They too may be split into three categories of subjectivism (moral claims are true if the individual truly believes in them), intersubjectivism (moral claims are true if the wider community accepts them) and objectivism (moral claims are only true if they are independent of any preferences). This, in turn, raises the question: Are there any truly objective moral values? If you think so, you are an objective moral realist. If not, you are an objective anti-realist, believing all moral claims are false because we as a society assume a set of moral codes, (i.e. what is right and what is wrong), which is a manmade phenomenon and so does not truly exist.
From my point of view, I agree with this last statement. Unless a believer in the Bible, which states that morals are derived from the Divine Ten Commandments, then one must surely agree that mankind itself judges what is right and wrong, underlined by the alternate laws that govern separate societies. Such freedom of will was tragically exemplified by the hijackers of 9/11, who sincerely believed that the West was their sworn enemy and that they were to die for 'the right' cause. In their minds, they were 'freedom fighters'. To us, the West, they were terrorists and committed an act of monstrosity.
Therein lie the problems that face the world today.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
The 'me generation' of the 60s
The last week has seen something of a transition from the philosophical ideals of existentialism to the new literary form of writing, known as 'New Journalism'. In fact, it is possible to see a correlation between the emergence of blossoming existentialist writers, like Camus, and the increasing popularity in newspaper feature writing during the middle of the twentieth century.
Firstly, a word on the French existentialist, Jean-Paul Sartre. Perhaps the most revealing aspects of his philosophy lay in his ontological definitions of the world. He divided physical presences into three categories: things in themselves, things for themselves and things for others. The first group of objects are indeterminate, as they are subject to constant change through decay, thus including everyday objects such as apples, books and even houses, (among countless others of course). This group also incorporates living specimens like flowers and trees, although are distinguished from the second, in that they are not self determining or self thinking. In other words, the second category refers to people themselves. The latter group consists also of living 'things', but those that live and exist only for the benefit of their superiors, not for themselves. For example, slaves living in the eighteenth century may have been considered part of this final band, as were wives treated as subordinates to their husbands before the emergence of the feminist movement.
In my view, there may be some contradictions, (or to put it more politely, overlaps), in Sartre's divisions. Surely the concept of death signifies that human beings (whether considered to be of an inferior or superior social standing) are 'finite' too? And in my case, a good apple serves no better purpose than satisfying my own hunger, so surely these are the things which truly exist only 'for our own benefit'? Needless to say, everything rots and dies eventually, so perhaps it would be more suitable to place every conceivable phenomenon in the first bracket, before then splitting them into their own sub-categories.
Ironically, despite these potentially brash stereotypes, the outlandish beliefs of existentialism may be credited with fostering a new social interest in challenging prejudicial views previously held on homosexuals, ethnic minorities, etc. Existentialist, Simone de Beauvoir, for example, became known as one of the first outspoken feminists of the last century. She was infamously, in fact, one of Sartre's many lovers. Her book, The Second Sex, argued that one was not born a woman, but 'became' one, through the subconsciously accepted social structures that framed male and female relationships.
Indeed, it manifested itself into a sort of cultural movement, particularly in France and the USA, where it gave birth to the New Left of social activists, perhaps most often associated with the 'Hippie Movement' of the sixties. Freedom of speech became increasingly important in the New World and this concept quickly gathered momentum in the profession of journalism - the eyes and ears of the public. Liberal theories in freedom of the press were developed, thus giving rise to yet another 'New'... New Journalism.
And so we come full circle. As discussed in the previous post, New Journalism promoted unique takes upon news reporting, which allowed writers to openly express an opinion within the media and readers to gain a variety of perspectives that broadened their own understanding. Today, 'Gonzo Journalism', (as it has become more recently known, coined by editor Bill Cardoso in 1970), is not only limited to print media. The documentary, 'Supersize Me' of 2004, was pointed out in this week's seminar. But there are also examples of investigative reporting on radio and in the cinema, such as in the 2009 film, 'Brothers at War'. The director, Jake Rademacher, follows his brother into the war in Iraq, documenting the profound experiences of both themselves and their family back home.
Each of these examples contains very different subject matter, but their origins and production are very similar. In each case, the journalist leaves his comfort zone, going out into the field to actually witness and, most importantly, live the story. This is, I believe, the most important ideal that the genre has given birth to. And modern critics may point at Gonzo Journalism as another offshoot of tabloidisation, which serves only in sensationalising a story (be it hard or soft news). But then, as audiences, don't we crave a little drama every now and again...?
Firstly, a word on the French existentialist, Jean-Paul Sartre. Perhaps the most revealing aspects of his philosophy lay in his ontological definitions of the world. He divided physical presences into three categories: things in themselves, things for themselves and things for others. The first group of objects are indeterminate, as they are subject to constant change through decay, thus including everyday objects such as apples, books and even houses, (among countless others of course). This group also incorporates living specimens like flowers and trees, although are distinguished from the second, in that they are not self determining or self thinking. In other words, the second category refers to people themselves. The latter group consists also of living 'things', but those that live and exist only for the benefit of their superiors, not for themselves. For example, slaves living in the eighteenth century may have been considered part of this final band, as were wives treated as subordinates to their husbands before the emergence of the feminist movement.
In my view, there may be some contradictions, (or to put it more politely, overlaps), in Sartre's divisions. Surely the concept of death signifies that human beings (whether considered to be of an inferior or superior social standing) are 'finite' too? And in my case, a good apple serves no better purpose than satisfying my own hunger, so surely these are the things which truly exist only 'for our own benefit'? Needless to say, everything rots and dies eventually, so perhaps it would be more suitable to place every conceivable phenomenon in the first bracket, before then splitting them into their own sub-categories.
Ironically, despite these potentially brash stereotypes, the outlandish beliefs of existentialism may be credited with fostering a new social interest in challenging prejudicial views previously held on homosexuals, ethnic minorities, etc. Existentialist, Simone de Beauvoir, for example, became known as one of the first outspoken feminists of the last century. She was infamously, in fact, one of Sartre's many lovers. Her book, The Second Sex, argued that one was not born a woman, but 'became' one, through the subconsciously accepted social structures that framed male and female relationships.
Indeed, it manifested itself into a sort of cultural movement, particularly in France and the USA, where it gave birth to the New Left of social activists, perhaps most often associated with the 'Hippie Movement' of the sixties. Freedom of speech became increasingly important in the New World and this concept quickly gathered momentum in the profession of journalism - the eyes and ears of the public. Liberal theories in freedom of the press were developed, thus giving rise to yet another 'New'... New Journalism.
And so we come full circle. As discussed in the previous post, New Journalism promoted unique takes upon news reporting, which allowed writers to openly express an opinion within the media and readers to gain a variety of perspectives that broadened their own understanding. Today, 'Gonzo Journalism', (as it has become more recently known, coined by editor Bill Cardoso in 1970), is not only limited to print media. The documentary, 'Supersize Me' of 2004, was pointed out in this week's seminar. But there are also examples of investigative reporting on radio and in the cinema, such as in the 2009 film, 'Brothers at War'. The director, Jake Rademacher, follows his brother into the war in Iraq, documenting the profound experiences of both themselves and their family back home.
Each of these examples contains very different subject matter, but their origins and production are very similar. In each case, the journalist leaves his comfort zone, going out into the field to actually witness and, most importantly, live the story. This is, I believe, the most important ideal that the genre has given birth to. And modern critics may point at Gonzo Journalism as another offshoot of tabloidisation, which serves only in sensationalising a story (be it hard or soft news). But then, as audiences, don't we crave a little drama every now and again...?
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Seminar Paper - Tom Wolfe's 'The New Journalism' (1973)
Tom Wolfe is an American author and journalist, who moved to New York City in 1962, where he became employed by the publication, New York Herald Tribune. His book, The New Journalism, is split in two parts. The first is a manifesto and the second is an anthology of exemplary literary pieces that effectively illustrates part one, compiled by himself and editor, Edward Warren Johnson.
The phrase, ‘New Journalism’, refers to a form of writing that was born and developed during the sixties. It favours not the traditional conventions of dispassionate reporting, but rather the incorporation of narrative techniques, (most often found in the novel), into investigative journalism. Part one of Wolfe’s book, on which this seminar paper will focus, explores New Journalism’s emergence, his own employment of the form and its significance to Sixties American culture.
The first chapter explores his arrival in the City, describing the state of journalism early in the decade. Wolfe admits to a disappointment at the apparent lack of ambition within the field, both in his professional environment – as he compares the office to ‘the receiving bin at the Good Will’ (pp.16) – and in his future prospects. Many sixties journalists shared no interest in internal promotion. Instead, they competed amongst one another for a different purpose.
These journalists Wolfe refers to as ‘feature writers’, who worked largely for Sunday Supplements, contributing human interest stories and quirky anecdotes to the paper. Unlike ‘scoop reporters’, who dealt in ‘hard news’ that was usually politically based, feature writers sought to portray their pieces with a narrative verging on fiction. To them, journalism itself was simply a stepping stone towards what Wolfe calls their ‘final triumph’, which was the novel (pp.17).
As he acknowledges, since the latter half of the nineteenth century, the novel was perceived as the highest form of literature, which enabled the author to express his or her unquestionable maturity and understanding of the world. Here we begin to note the supposed hierarchy of writing, which arguably still exists today. Early novelists like Dickens, Twain and Bronte are still revered as celebrities of the literary world and their work remains the canon of English and American education. In comparison, the tabloidization of newspapers over recent decades has somewhat scarred the reputation of the so-called scoop reporters, due to growing trends in exaggeration and sensationalism that blurs the distinction between gossip and ‘real life’.
Thus, although a competitive environment would have proved beneficial to the quality of newspaper features during the time, it is perhaps indicative that writing was (and still may be) a conceited profession. However, as Wolfe states himself, this pursuit of the ‘final triumph’ is comparable with the American Dream, which is itself founded upon a striving simply to become the best one can be.
As a result, as the sixties wore on, feature writing became more popular and chapter two describes the way in which articles began to develop into fully fledged pieces of literary non-fiction. They were often characterised by descriptive scenes that conveyed the story to readers, which were subsequently connected by expository passages that were more journalistically conventional. For example, Guy Talese’s ‘The soft psyche of Joshua Logan’ (from the anthology), opens with; ‘The theatre lights dimmed, and the jewels in the audience sparkled like a city seen at night from an airplane…’ (pp.81). Having set the scene, Talese begins the next passage of his piece by placing the narrative in context, stating ‘and so here he was, in the Fall of 1962, stung successively by three critical flops…’ (pp.81).
By employing various literary devices, such as imagery, writers like Talese were given licence to put their own personal stamp on the story in question. Previously, columns and editorials were the only real vehicles for expressing opinion and these were only handed to distinguished reporters. Feature writing allowed journalists this rare opportunity to ‘go outside’ and find a good, interesting story and be able to approach it entirely subjectively (pp.25). Today, this may seem an ordinary procedure; however, Wolfe claims that in 1963 it was ‘unheard of among newspaper columnists’ (pp.25). New Journalism may partly be credited, therefore, with modern journalistic practices of actively interacting with the subject. Indeed, during the sixties these varied from joining the army and participating in training, to shadowing the infamous Hell’s Angels.
Wolfe notes one particular journalist from the Herald Tribune, Jimmy Breslin, who would gather copious amounts of background material in order to accurately portray his ‘characters’ and give them ‘life’. Wolfe is attempting to prove to his readers the effort that goes into each individual piece of feature writing, dispelling the myth of ‘flashes [of]… creativity’ that once drew the line between journalism and fictional novels (pp.27). He presents us with the ‘death of the novel’ and the resulting shock that this caused to the traditional ‘class structure’ of writing. This pyramid consisted of, at its very peak, novelists and poets, then came the essayists and historians, followed lastly by the journalists. Sunday Supplement writers, like Wolfe himself, were not considered to be ‘in the game’ and so their sudden use of all three of the other forms’ techniques was deeply disturbing to the literary world (pp.39).
In many ways, the emergence of New Journalism may be compared to a form of social revolution that Marx himself sought; namely, the liquidation of all ‘classes’ of literature into a single solution. Certainly, this style of writing differed in both discourse and content.
Point of view was vital to the art and Wolfe would even place himself in some of his articles to experiment with different narrative perspectives. He also states that subjectivity or objectivity becomes irrelevant if the narrator’s voice is too understated. The writer should assume the position of a man witnessing his or her protagonist in action and immerse the piece in the surrounding culture, (for example, taking up the dialect of the subject’s region). This Wolfe calls the ‘downstage voice’ (pp.32). In any case, he did not want to sound ‘like a radio announcer at a tennis match’ (pp.31).
In terms of content, Wolfe argues that Sixties America will later be defined not by its political events, but by its morals towards the counter culture, the ‘death of God’ and so on. Audiences or ‘consumers’ wanted the framing of social realism to change; there was a new fascination with surrealism and Freudian theories and New Journalism exploited this, unlike the novelists, who seemed to limit their interests to the likes of space exploration and the on-going war in Vietnam. Pop culture and drug use were common issues that feature writing explored, accounting largely for its sudden explosion in popularity during a decade labelled the ‘Swinging Psychedelic Sixties’.
The final chapter of part one lays out Wolfe’s four essential devices that characterise any piece of New Journalism. Wolfe argues that this feature writing gave the literary form ‘immediacy… concrete reality… [and] emotional involvement’, achieved firstly through ‘scene-by-scene construction’ (pp.46). As opposed to earlier examples, such as that of Talese in 1963, articles eventually evolved into legitimate ‘short stories’, which were developed narratively by the direct transition from one scene to another, without use of the previously employed expository passage. This can be seen in another of the anthology’s articles, ‘Gear’, written by Richard Goldstein in 1969. The opening paragraph begins with, ‘Too early to get up, especially on Saturday. The sun peeks over his windowsill’, before the next starts, ‘In the bathroom he breaks three screaming pimples’ (pp.96). Unlike the previous article, there is no explanation, between scenes, from an external narrator as to what is happening, which furthers the impression of this piece of journalism as a fictional story in its own right.
Secondly, any dialogue must be recorded in full, avoiding paraphrasing as much as possible so as to present a strong sense of character, while the story should also be told through the third-person point of view, as demonstrated by Goldstein. In comparison to conventional journalism, which is usually conveyed through the first-person (i.e. the reporter), this allows readers into the story of every character and so portrays several different perspectives.
Finally, in order also to convey an accurate account, the fourth device states that the writer must symbolise what Wolfe calls the ‘status life’ of the protagonist. Every physical aspect, every mannerism, every significant relationship must be used in building a subtle image of the subject of the piece. In ‘Gear’, Goldstein tells readers of the relationship the protagonist shares with his mother, as well as what personality she may have, through simple descriptions and actions; ‘He walks past… where his mother sleeps in a gauzy hairnet, the covers pulled over her chin, her baby feet swathed in yellow calluses… He mutters silently at her’ (pp.97).
According to Wolfe, this creates ‘an atmosphere as rich and involving as the Joycean use of point of view’ (pp.48). It is, however, built on the assumption that these pictures trigger the reader’s memories of his or her own status life, which may, I think, be the most difficult effect to achieve within such a short body of writing. Joyce’s famous sub-conscious narrative is an incredibly extensive work, which intends to progressively absorb the reader into the protagonist’s mind-set and thus form a close understanding of the character through this textual relationship. In a piece of feature writing, usually no more than several thousand words, the journalist faces an arduous and arguably impossible task of emulating such a bond.
Clearly though, New Journalism has opened new possibilities and exciting prospects for budding writers. Ironically, many now turn to this form of literature over the staling novel, unlike those journalists working for the Sunday Supplements before the sixties arrived. Readers, the most important people to writers, seek original takes on the art form, as well as unique material. Wolfe concludes that this is due to the human mind craving constant interaction with fellow ‘status lives’ and this may be true, for as the science of anthropology has sought to prove, we each ‘develop and survive’ according to the society that we live in (pp.48).
Friday, March 4, 2011
The Absurdist: Albert Camus
This week we concentrated on the work of Algerian writer and philosopher, Albert Camus. His novella, The Stranger, first published in English in 1946, follows the adult life of protagonist, Meursault.
The most prevalent theme in my eyes is death. The story opens with Meursault receiving a letter to attend his mother's funeral, after which, a chain of everyday events unfolds, leading to him killing an Arab man while on the beach with his friends and ultimately resulting in his own execution. So, the narrative discourse of the book, while somewhat shocking and peculiar, is not exactly ground breaking and worthy of discussion, but for the perspective from which it is told, namely, from the first person of Meursault himself. For Camus' 'hero', it would seem, is an existentialist and, moreover, may be described as an absurdist.
While existentialism concerns the meaning behind defining one's life and place within the universe, absurdism states that the connection of body and soul, resulting in emotional perception, as well as sensory, is... well, absurd. The two are very closely linked, but the latter, it would seem to me, is somehow scathing of life and its sociological structures, to the point that it would appear to scoff at those foolish enough to take it seriously. In chapter 4, Meursault openly declares that he dislikes policemen and almost enjoys describing the disrespectful behaviour of his friend, Sintes, towards an officer on duty. That he is repulsed by a figure whose job it is to uphold the laws of the land, drawn out by generations before him, is significant in that he is seeking to undermine a symbol of the constraints that surround daily life for every person and into which we are forcibly born.
The existentialist in Meursault begins to shine through as the story progresses and in chapter 5, he says, 'one never changed his way of life'. He would seem to be disregarding the supposed instinct for achievement in life, admitting that he too was ambitious as a student, before realising 'that was pretty futile'. A person's sole 'achievement' should be survival to the day when death will inevitably arrive, but the life through which one must survive is down to luck and fortune and we must accept it for what it is. This itself sounds closely linked to an existentialist theory, loosely termed, 'thrown-ness', i.e. we are 'thrown' into our own lives and there must we make do.
However, Meursault, for all his calm, assured expositions on the meaninglessness of life around him, appears mentally unstable at times. At the vigil of his mother's funeral, (chapter 1), the bright light and white walls are intense and uncomfortable, as he feels himself under the scrutiny of the 'dull' eyes and 'nest of wrinkles' of her elderly friends. He can hear only an eerie sobbing for the entire duration, creating the impression that Meursault himself is experiencing the 'act' of death. Throughout the story, he also describes the stifling heat that disorientates him and which eventually leads him to confronting the Arab man with Sintes' revolver, thus becoming his ultimate downfall. Such mental disturbances may possibly highlight Meursault's isolation from the rest of society, pointing towards his emotional detachment from his sensory perceptions.
Camus' hero, therefore, would seem somewhat uninspiring to his readers. Although commendable in his self-belief and valiance in defending his own morals, his apparent psychological illness appears to undermine this. However, his 'heroic exploits' are not to be fully recognised until the final chapters of the book, when Meursault, condemned to death by the guillotine, comes to understand humankind's insignificance in the grand context of the universe. A chaplain's attempts to turn him to God are bluntly rejected and he realises that his public indifference towards death may serve society in ridding it of the selfish seriousness with which men and women approach a meaningless life. Meursault's death becomes framed as the sacrifice of a martyr, on the scale of the biblical story of Jesus Christ. He, as a character, seems to have evolved in the short space of time from chapter 1 and his disturbed perceptions of death at the vigil, to become a stronger representative of the existentialist, absurdist philosophy.
As a hero, Meursault is a counteractive literary figure, a response to the traditional romanticists of the Enlightenment era and onwards. Camus effectively proposed that the real heroes are those who are passive, rather than active, which is reflected in Meursault's own admiration for a stranger he meets, describing her as a 'robot'. Camus believed that an unfaltering, mechanical approach to life is 'less inauthentic', disregarding strong emotional attachments to anything or anyone as frivolous. The Stranger certainly was a ground breaking piece of literature and anything but ordinary.
The most prevalent theme in my eyes is death. The story opens with Meursault receiving a letter to attend his mother's funeral, after which, a chain of everyday events unfolds, leading to him killing an Arab man while on the beach with his friends and ultimately resulting in his own execution. So, the narrative discourse of the book, while somewhat shocking and peculiar, is not exactly ground breaking and worthy of discussion, but for the perspective from which it is told, namely, from the first person of Meursault himself. For Camus' 'hero', it would seem, is an existentialist and, moreover, may be described as an absurdist.
While existentialism concerns the meaning behind defining one's life and place within the universe, absurdism states that the connection of body and soul, resulting in emotional perception, as well as sensory, is... well, absurd. The two are very closely linked, but the latter, it would seem to me, is somehow scathing of life and its sociological structures, to the point that it would appear to scoff at those foolish enough to take it seriously. In chapter 4, Meursault openly declares that he dislikes policemen and almost enjoys describing the disrespectful behaviour of his friend, Sintes, towards an officer on duty. That he is repulsed by a figure whose job it is to uphold the laws of the land, drawn out by generations before him, is significant in that he is seeking to undermine a symbol of the constraints that surround daily life for every person and into which we are forcibly born.
The existentialist in Meursault begins to shine through as the story progresses and in chapter 5, he says, 'one never changed his way of life'. He would seem to be disregarding the supposed instinct for achievement in life, admitting that he too was ambitious as a student, before realising 'that was pretty futile'. A person's sole 'achievement' should be survival to the day when death will inevitably arrive, but the life through which one must survive is down to luck and fortune and we must accept it for what it is. This itself sounds closely linked to an existentialist theory, loosely termed, 'thrown-ness', i.e. we are 'thrown' into our own lives and there must we make do.
However, Meursault, for all his calm, assured expositions on the meaninglessness of life around him, appears mentally unstable at times. At the vigil of his mother's funeral, (chapter 1), the bright light and white walls are intense and uncomfortable, as he feels himself under the scrutiny of the 'dull' eyes and 'nest of wrinkles' of her elderly friends. He can hear only an eerie sobbing for the entire duration, creating the impression that Meursault himself is experiencing the 'act' of death. Throughout the story, he also describes the stifling heat that disorientates him and which eventually leads him to confronting the Arab man with Sintes' revolver, thus becoming his ultimate downfall. Such mental disturbances may possibly highlight Meursault's isolation from the rest of society, pointing towards his emotional detachment from his sensory perceptions.
Camus' hero, therefore, would seem somewhat uninspiring to his readers. Although commendable in his self-belief and valiance in defending his own morals, his apparent psychological illness appears to undermine this. However, his 'heroic exploits' are not to be fully recognised until the final chapters of the book, when Meursault, condemned to death by the guillotine, comes to understand humankind's insignificance in the grand context of the universe. A chaplain's attempts to turn him to God are bluntly rejected and he realises that his public indifference towards death may serve society in ridding it of the selfish seriousness with which men and women approach a meaningless life. Meursault's death becomes framed as the sacrifice of a martyr, on the scale of the biblical story of Jesus Christ. He, as a character, seems to have evolved in the short space of time from chapter 1 and his disturbed perceptions of death at the vigil, to become a stronger representative of the existentialist, absurdist philosophy.
As a hero, Meursault is a counteractive literary figure, a response to the traditional romanticists of the Enlightenment era and onwards. Camus effectively proposed that the real heroes are those who are passive, rather than active, which is reflected in Meursault's own admiration for a stranger he meets, describing her as a 'robot'. Camus believed that an unfaltering, mechanical approach to life is 'less inauthentic', disregarding strong emotional attachments to anything or anyone as frivolous. The Stranger certainly was a ground breaking piece of literature and anything but ordinary.
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