One of my reading goals this year included reading one book per alphabet letter coordinating with an author’s last name (does that even make sense?). For example, Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne satisfies the “V.” This goal was to help me get through my library of nearly 400 books and I figured it would be a fun way to spice up my normal reading. Instead of reading the same author several times in a year, this was an attempt to broaden my horizons, as they say. Whether or not this actually worked is a topic for the end of the year when I review my reading decisions for 2025.
So, while I’ve nearly finished that portion of my 2025 reading goals, I am currently reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche, satisfying the “N.” Adjacent to Zarathustra is Twilight of the Idols, The Genealogy of Morals, and Human, All too Human. This may lead you to question what my obsession is with Nietzsche and to that I would jokingly answer that I enjoy the conversation it sparks while exiting a plane because reading in public places is fun.
My follow-up response would be to remind you that my collection of Albert Camus spans a whopping 6 titles. Have I mentioned that the void is really my dear friend?
Another goal of mine this year was to finish off my collection of Camus which I’ve nearly completed with just The Rebel remaining. Ironically, my endeavor to “broaden my horizons” doesn’t quite live up to that hope because I’ve clearly spent a good portion of my time reading the rest of my existentialist philosophy, despite their last names falling into different categories.
Regardless of whether I failed at my intended goal of reading a bit broader this year, I am now left with many thoughts (what’s new?) about Nietzsche, Camus, and my originally held opinion that Camus was my preferred philosopher when it comes to The all-encompassing Worldview. The last comment I made to my new friend before exiting the plane was that I find Camus lighter than Nietzsche and the latter’s philosophy is simply more depressing.
What a loaded statement. Haven’t I mentioned that I hate reducing things to their mere titles, or in this instance, some very underdeveloped feelings?
Nietzsche inherently demands more of the reader than Camus. The bottom line is that part of Camus’ popularity boils down to the fact that he is more quotable and more accessible than Nietzsche and as an “existentialist” author, if you want to call him that, that holds power. Why? Well, so people like me can talk about him on planes with an aura of confidence. Also, so that the boy who lives below you in freshman dorms, smoking a cigarette, can convince you that life is meaningless so we must fill it with our desires and pleasure. The times I have encountered people like this, they have abstracted Camus’ philosophy to some hedonistic sense of living. Is that what Camus meant?
The opposite seems to be true with Nietzsche die-hards. Brooding, somewhat delusional, and albeit seemingly more serious, these types of people appear to me as always on edge. A friend from my upper-division logic course read Zarathustra at a period in his life that honestly may have done him more harm than good. Over drinks at his shared second year apartment on campus, he would stand up, look at his reflection in the sliding glass door, and say that he didn’t even recognize himself; mimicking a similar encounter that Zarathustra himself has. I really can’t recall a time that anything similar to this happened with someone who subscribed closer to Camus. Indeed, my Ancient Philosophy professor fell into the Camus camp and would go to spaceship-themed speakeasies on Halloween and discuss his bachelor life with his students frequently. Not that professors can’t have fun, but surely, you see the difference?
All of this is to say that the types of people who love their respective existentialist author (which is certainly not limited to Nietzsche and Camus), tend to fall into somewhat clearly defined camps: the brooding fatalist or the sensuous absurdist, regardless of what the actual philosophy says.
This is somewhat interesting to me. The way we interpret and define our lives starts to define the philosophy itself. It’s like the works we read to help establish our own worldviews are taken within the context of how other people live with the philosophy itself and thus defines the way we interact with it personally. Me saying to my plane-friend that I think Camus is a bit more hopeful (whether or not that’s actually true) is defined by how I’ve seen people live their lives in relation to him and may now also contextualize how my plane-friend sees Camus.
Quick intermission to applaud the woman who somehow just learned about cultural influence. Did I just get out from under a rock?
But seriously, where do our influences start and our own opinions begin? What constitutes due diligence in forming your own opinions? Is telling an incredibly reduced statement about a very popular philosopher to a person on a plane doing a disservice to you, them, or the philosopher? All three? Is it even the right thing to do?
On the one hand, accessible philosophy encourages the continuation of the practice–jargon and ivory towers serve only to keep people out. On the other hand, accessible philosophy and popular culture creates people like me who feel the ability to make blanket statements that really don’t capture the full story. Yet, we love doing it, so we love people like Albert Camus who says things like “In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” It’s memorable, quotable, accessible and yes, hopeful.
Before I had read Camus’ essays and really had only sat with The Stranger and The Plague, I actually felt that Camus had more of a bleak outlook than what I think is actually the case. In making a podcast episode with a friend of mine in college, we disagreed over Camus’ overarching philosophy which for me was defined by his novels and for my friend was defined by his personal writings. It was at that time that I was presented with the interpretation that Camus might actually have more of a positive (or at least not as negative) outlook than I thought. This disagreement set the tone for my relationship with the works I read going forward, and yes how we are influenced not just by the works themselves, but also how our peers interpret it.
It also reinforced something that I may have forgotten until my recent experience on a plane: we ought to be careful with our suggestions. Making reduced statements can be harmful or beneficial and knowing your audience is important. Fortunately, the man I spoke with seemed well-versed and even gave me suggestions for future readings, so maybe that was the type of person that can take reduced statements and see them for what they actually are. On the other hand, we owe it to our peers to continue the cultivation of knowledge and curiosity by not doing what I did. Perhaps I am being too harsh on myself, but my personal belief is that everything is worth knowing and creating a space to understand better should be our ultimate goals. Making reduced statements about things we enjoy and should be discussed can have the opposite effect and make it so that the barrier to entry is higher than it ought to be.
Pick your words carefully, elaborate, and even run the risk of rambling. Be approachable and accessible. Stay curious and love to love knowledge. Inspire and strive to be better. We sharpen each other.
Wolf Den Books 
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