Albert Camus
Caligola

I hold it between my fingers, preventing it from flying away. A useless precaution because it reminds me of myself, now it's been ten years, when on that beach I nearly encountered alcohol poisoning. And it couldn't be otherwise: my hand fell on it, barely touching it, and it's as if a mass as large as a row of three-story houses had darkened its sky, falling from nowhere with a very loud bang. A big bang. I hold it between my fingers, thumb and index finger, and at that moment, it feels as if I am God. A slight pressure…

Don't be fooled! These seventy pages are not so thin and easy: a Nobel prize winner whose real name is Albert Camus, (read everything he has written if you can and not just “The Plague” and “The Stranger”), banged his head on this for a fair number of years with three versions. It is a book that belongs to the category of the unreviewable, but as usual, my goal isn't to judge such a work but to try and give you a nudge, throw a little sand in your eyes. To intrigue you, maybe annoy you, to get you moving towards the library or, better yet, the nearest bookstore. Because I'm certain it's worth the six measly euros and because, trust me, it would look great in your living room.

Imagine being stuck in one of those damn silences that even the voices of Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye, blasting through the stereo speakers, cannot dissolve; the icy detachment of the biped of the opposite sex in the form of a pair of lovely legs completely padlocked. In the language of the body, when the limbs of the counterpart cross in such a firm and impenetrable way, it means a very simple thing: NO. And so, before the last brush-off to add to the not unsubstantial collection, you still have two or three minutes: the time it takes for her head to muster a passable excuse for saying goodbye with a demure kiss of soft cement lips. Obviously on the cheek. You glance at the bookshelf: in those thousands of pages there must be something. With a leap like Tarzan, you swiftly swing from one vine, hobbies and music, to the other, talking about summer heat and the desire for the sea. You take her to North Africa. To Algeria. Camus lived right there, and so you share your version of this thin yet powerful little book you recently read. However, she thinks, the apartment remains a dump, like the car, and he seems unreliable, to say the least, but he reads Camus. Never read anything by this author, but I've heard the name. A question mark slips under her beautiful hair. For a moment, she doubts that you are what you indeed are, and the fact that she was mistaken is entirely secondary. That's enough. A glass, in fact, has already materialized in her hand and this time "Moondance" by Van Morrison, perhaps you thought it was racist while you were putting Gaye and Cooke to bed, does its damn job. Her legs and arms finally stop hiding from each other and timidly come into view.

Emperor Caligula is torn by grief over the departure of Drusilla, his lover and sister. If he had only loved her, a bit of melancholy would have been enough to make him recover and calm down. The problem is he feels the pangs of the flesh and seems to be burning. He has discovered that the people dear to him, despite being emperor, can die, and therefore living no longer makes much sense. And so, meaning, justice, and whatever will be eliminated in his kingdom. He decides to come out of the isolation he initially retreated into, worrying the Senate quite a bit, turning the concept of good and evil on its head, instituting absurd laws like indiscriminate death sentences. He kills for the pleasure of it and enjoys when he hears the fear in the trembling voice of his next victim. He revels in the terror of others. He respects only those who understand the situation, that of the condemned awaiting their hour with detachment, and show indifference: his antagonist Cherea.

It's a collection of fierce and sharp phrases that Camus offers the reader to best render the overdose of power that has taken over the crazy emperor. Assassin's sarcasm. “You seem in a very bad mood today. Surely it can't be because I had your son killed?”. Gloomy narcissism. “After an execution, he yawns and says very seriously: what I admire most is my insensitivity”. Omnipotence. “I live, I kill and exercise the delirious power of the destroyer, compared to which the creator's power is but a pale imitation”.

In the third version I read (1958), the imprint left after the Second World War is evident. In the ruthless design of death and terror established by Caligula, it is possible to find a similarity with the figure of Hitler. I hope to soon see the theatrical adaptation of the work.