A short essay, written 23rd July 2026

I have started reading Albert Camus’ ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’. He writes near the start of science and scientific explanations for the world around us. He does not deny the truth of these facts and hypothesis, but rather writes of their absurdity and irrelevance to him. (This is my limited understanding of what I’ve read thus far anyhow, but I am hot and tired and uncomfortable, barely halfway through a nine hour coach journey, so my understanding may well be (is very likely to be) a misunderstanding. But that is not wholly relevant to what I am to write.)

I feel somewhat conflicted on this, or I did, but now less so. I am watching the clouds as the coach moves along, and the sun, as it propels a golden glow through the gaps in the clouds, is casting sunbeams on the world below. I have a vague understanding of how and why these sunbeams exist, and I know I could have a less vague understanding should I do just a little research. Or perhaps my current understanding isn’t so vague at all (I do not imagine it is terribly complex), but the point is: in this moment, I do not care to know.

The sunbeams are beautiful, ethereal. I know this to be true; I see them with my eyes, which I know to be, and I know to tell the truth (as far as I can ever know anything, for I have never been given reason to think otherwise). My eyes tell this to my mind, which I also know to be real, for I think (a little Descartes too, I must really know my stuff (as a side note on that topic, I am not questioning the reality of everything beyond myself, only arguing the irrelevance of said reality)) (my mind, on the contrary, I know for a fact does not always tell me the objective truth, but in this instance is taking from a trusted source: my aforementioned eyes). The question of how these sunbeams exist is entirely irrelevant. The answer to that question has no effect on the beauty of what I see. I see the sunbeams, I see they are beautiful; that is real and that is all the reality that matters (for me, in this moment anyway. I certainly am not arguing that a scientific understanding of things is irrelevant to everyone, all the time).

To sum up, I suppose I am trying to argue that understanding is not necessary for appreciation, satisfaction or contentedness. (I am unsure if this is what Camus was trying to argue too. I am yet to read on and as I mentioned before, am likely misunderstanding most of the points to most of his words (not that that matters either so long as I can separate my understanding of his words from his intention behind the words; I cannot assume the two are the same)). This conclusion circles me back to another thing Camus wrote, just a few pages earlier, that my appreciation of I had previously found troubling.

“This very heart which is mine will forever remain undefinable to me. Between the certainty I have of my existence and the content I try to give to that assurance, the gap will never be filled. For ever I shall be a stranger to myself.”
This passage immediately struck a chord with me, for try as I may I have never managed a full understanding of who I am, why I think the way I do, or why I feel the way I do. I am only very young, as was Camus when he wrote that (unfortunately not so in the context of his too short life), and I know he later wrote that “I have progressed beyond several of the positions which are set down here”, so perhaps in time I will develop an understanding. But that is the future, and not for me to know (yet). So in the present, all I can do is accept this lack of understanding, and the assumption that it will remain that way.

Only this conclusion, to me, is terrifying.
Or at least it was.
I do not believe I have suddenly reached some philosophical epiphany, quenching many of my doubts and troubles. Perhaps tiredness and discomfort have tricked me into a period of false lucidity. But I cannot deny that that which previously frightened me to to such severe lengths that I do not feel comfortable writing of, now almost seems like a comfort itself.

I did not need any understanding of the sunbeams to find satisfaction and even joy in them. So why should I need an understanding of myself to find satisfaction and joy in myself, and my own life?
That is not to say an understanding is bad; the sunbeams would’ve still been beautiful had I a perfect scientific explanation of their existence. And I still, to some extent, wish to pursue an understanding of myself, even if I am convinced that may be in vain. But I cannot find reason why the lack of understanding I currently have should be an obstacle to anything. (Besides, say, meteorology.)