At 6 o'clock in the evening, I arrived in Prague. I will send my luggage to the storage office immediately. There were still two hours left to find the hotel, and I was filled with a strange feeling of liberation, as my two suitcases no longer weighed on my hands. I left the station, walked along the garden, and came to Vincelas Street. At this time, the streets were bustling with people. Around me, millions of people have lived to this day without revealing anything about their existence to me. They live. I am thousands of miles away from this familiar country. I don't understand their language. Everyone walked very fast. Everyone passed me and left me behind. I'm at a loss.

I have very little money. It will take 6 days with this money. But after this time, someone will help me. But it's still something that gives me a headache. So I started looking for a cheap hotel. I was in the new town and I felt that all the people were shining, crying and women. I quickened my pace. The hurried pace has a certain resemblance to running away. However, around 8 o'clock, I arrived in the old city. There, a small, cheap-looking hotel attracted me. I walked in. I filled out the form and got the key. My room is No. 34 on the 4th floor. I opened the door and saw a very luxurious room. I looked at the price list: It was twice as expensive as I expected. Money matters become difficult. In this big city, I can only live frugally. The worry that was not very obvious just now became more definite. I felt uncomfortable and empty inside. However, there is one moment of clarity: rightly or wrongly people always show me the greatest indifference when it comes to money matters. What's the use of this foolish worry here? But the mind is already moving. Should eat, get back on the road and find a cheap hotel. After that, I could only spend 10 kronor on a meal. Of all the restaurants I've seen, the cheapest is also the most impersonal. I walked back and forth. The people in the store finally noticed my whereabouts. Should go in. It's a dark basement decorated with crude murals. There are a lot of people inside. A few girls were smoking cigarettes and talking seriously in a corner. The men were eating, most of them hard to tell their age, their faces gray and black. The waiter was a big man in a greasy tuxedo with a huge head and walked toward me expressionlessly. I quickly ordered a random item on a menu I didn't even recognize. But it seems that some explanation is needed. The waiter asked me something in Czech. I answered in what little German I knew. He doesn't understand German. I'm annoyed. He called a girl, who walked over in a accustomed manner, with her left hand on her hips and a cigarette in her right hand, with a moist smile on her face. She sat down at my table and asked me questions in German that was as bad as mine. Everything is clear. The waiter boasted to me about the seasonal dishes. He gave a great performance. I want fresh vegetables. The girl still spoke to me, but I could no longer understand her. Naturally, I said "yes" with a profound expression. But I was distracted. Everything annoys me. I rocked up, I wasn't hungry anymore. I always have this pain point on my body and feel uncomfortable in my stomach. I bought the girl a beer, as is my custom. The seasonal dishes arrived and I ate them. This is a dish made of corn flour mixed with meat, and something similar to dried tea is added in it, which is disgusting. But my mind was elsewhere, or rather I didn't think about anything at all, just staring at the greasy and smiling mouth of the woman opposite me. Does she believe in persuasion? She was already by my side, looking very clingy. An unconscious movement on my part caused her to restrain herself (she was ugly. I often think that if the girl had been beautiful, I would have avoided everything that followed). I was worried I would get sick in this crowd of people who were ready to laugh. Plus I was still living alone in a hotel, no money, frustrated, just myself and my poor thoughts. To this day I still ask myself in embarrassment how a frightened and cowardly person like me could escape myself. I left the hotel and walked around the old town, but I couldn't face myself staying too long. I ran back to the hotel and lay down, falling asleep almost as soon as I got into bed.

Any country I am not tired of is a country that teaches me nothing. It was with these words that I tried to regain my courage. But shall I describe the days to come? I went back to my restaurant. Morning and night I endured horrible dry food that made me sick. I felt like throwing up all day long. But I didn't throw it up because I knew I had to eat. If I didn't eat, I would have to find another restaurant. Why bother? Here, I was at least "recognized." If people didn't talk to me, they smiled at me. Anxiety, on the other hand, takes over. I place too much value on this extreme in my mind.

I decided to schedule my days so that I would expand my holds during the day. I get up as late as possible so that there are fewer hours in the day. Then freshen up and go out to explore the city bit by bit. I disappeared into the magnificent baroque church, trying to find a home again within it. But as I walked out of the church, this disappointing separation from myself left me emptier and more hopeless. I strolled along Vltava Street, which was blocked by bustling crowds. I spent long hours in the empty, quiet district of Haratsin. In the shadow of its churches and palaces, my lonely footsteps echoed through the streets as the sun set. Upon noticing the sound, I panicked again. I have dinner very early and go to bed at 8:30. The sun wakes me up. Churches, palaces and museums, I managed to ease my anxiety in all these works of art. My usual method was to drown my resistance in melancholy, but this was in vain. Once on the street, I became an outsider. However, once, in a Baroque monastery on the edge of the city: sweet time, slow bells, flocks of pigeons flying from the ancient tower, there is also something similar to the aroma of vanilla and nothingness. The thing brought about a tearful silence in me that almost liberated me. When I came back in the evening, I wrote down the above things in one go. I faithfully recorded it, because in the process of expressing these, I felt the complexity that I tasted at that time: What other benefits can be obtained from traveling? I don't have fancy clothes now. I couldn't understand the city's signs, the strange writing, couldn't recognize a single word, had no friends to talk to, and nothing to amuse myself with. In a room, you can hear the sounds of a strange city. It was clear to me that nothing could lift me from here and take me to a softer light home and a lovely place. I want to call and shout! What would appear were unfamiliar faces: churches, gold or agarwood, all of which threw me into a mediocre life in which my anxiety gave value to everything. This is the curtain of habit, the comfortable network of actions and words in which the mind sleeps, gradually awakens, and finally reveals the pale face of worry. Man faces himself: I doubt he is happy... However, traveling illuminates him and creates a deep dissonance between him and everything. The music of the world enters this less solid heart more easily. Finally, in this desert, the smallest lonely tree is becoming the gentlest and most fragile image. Works of art and women's smiles, people rooted in their home soil and monuments that encapsulate centuries, these are the vivid and touching landscapes that travel creates. Then one day later, in this hotel room, something once again formed a "dent" in me like the hunger of my soul. But do I need to admit, all of this is a story that puts me to sleep. The impression that Prague left on me was the smell of cucumbers soaked in vinegar. These cucumbers are sold on every street and people can eat them in a hurry while standing. The spicy and sour smell of cucumbers aroused my anxiety again, and my worries only intensified as soon as I crossed the threshold of the hotel. The effect of this scent may also come from some sort of accordion sound. Beneath my window sat a blind one-armed man, sitting on his instrument, holding it in place with half his ***, and playing with his only hand. He always played the same childish and soft tune. The sound of the piano wakes me up every morning, so that I am suddenly exposed to the naked reality in which I am struggling.

I still remember that on the bank of the Vltava River, I suddenly stopped. This scent or lyrical tune emanating from the depths of my heart surprises me, and I whisper to myself: "What does this mean? What does this mean?" But undoubtedly, I have not yet reached the edge. Around 10 o'clock in the morning on the fourth day, I was ready to go out. I'm going to see the Jewish cemetery that I couldn't find a few days ago. At this time there was a knock on the door of the next room. After a moment of silence, the man knocked on the door again. This time I knocked for a long time, but no one seemed to answer. Heavy footsteps went downstairs. I was looking at the instructions for the shaving cream I had been using for a month with a careless, empty mind. It was a dreary day, and a ray of auburn light fell from the cloudy sky upon the towers and cupolas of old Prague. The newspaper vendor was hawking the "Narodito Polidi" newspaper as usual in the morning. I struggled to free myself from the numbness that gripped me. But as I was leaving, I passed the waiter upstairs, who had the key in his hand. I stop. He knocked again for a long time. He tried to open the door, but it was no use; the latch might have been stuck inside. He knocked again.

The room made a hollow sound, desolate and depressing. I didn't want to ask anything and left. But, on the streets of Prague, I was haunted by a painful premonition. How could I forget the stupid face of the waiter upstairs, how could I forget his oddly curved patent leather shoes and his button-down jacket? Finally, I ate my lunch, but I ate it with growing disgust. Around 2 o'clock, I returned to the hotel.

In the hall, someone was whispering. I quickly ascended the stairs to more quickly witness what I expected. That's exactly what happened. The door was ajar, and I saw only a wall painted with blue paint, but the gloomy light I mentioned above fell on this wall, and the shadow of a dead man lay on the bed, and there was a policeman guarding the body. shadow. The two shadows are separated again at right angles. This light disturbs me. It is real, a true light of life, the light of the twilight of life, the light by which one discovers one is alive. He is dead. Left alone in his room. I know this isn't suicide. I hurried back to my room and threw myself on my bed. Judging by the shadow, I thought it was a short, fat man like many others. No doubt he had been dead for a long time. But in the hotel, life went on, until the waiter thought of calling him. The waiter came to him without any suspicion, but he had died alone. And me, I was looking at the instructions for shaving cream. It is difficult for me to describe the state in which I spent the whole afternoon. I lay there, my mind was empty, and I felt extremely uncomfortable. I trimmed my nails and counted the grooves in the floor. "If I count to 1,000..." and I count to 50 or 60, I will be confused and can't count anymore. I couldn't hear anything outside. Once, I heard a dull sound in the corridor. It was a woman, and she spoke in German: "He's so nice." I thought desperately of my city far away on the shores of the Mediterranean. I am so in love with the gentle summer nights under the green light, where there are young and beautiful women everywhere. I haven't said a word for many days, but my heart is filled with suppressed shouts and resistance. If someone opened their arms to me, I would cry like a child. Around evening time, exhausted, I frantically bolted the door. My mind was empty and I was thinking about an accordion piece over and over again. But at this time, I couldn't think about anything else. Hometown, city and name, madness or conquest, humiliation or longing, I can't remember any of this. Will I remember this again or will I fail? There was a knock on the door and my friends walked in. Even though I was disappointed, I was saved. I think what I said was, "It's nice to see you again." But I'm sure that ended there, and in their eyes, I was still the same person they had parted with.

Soon I left Prague. Of course, I'm interested in what I see and hear in the future. I remember the time when the geraniums were in full bloom in the small Gothic cemetery of Bauzan, and the blue of the morning. I could talk about the long, unforgiving and unprofitable plains of Silesia. I crossed the Silesian plain at dawn. A black flock of birds flew over the sticky earth on a foggy morning. I also like the gentle and deep Moravia, its infinite wilderness, and the roads lined with plum trees laden with sour fruits. But deep down in my heart, I retained the shock of those who looked at the bottomless trench for so long. I went to Vienna and stayed for a week. I am always a prisoner of myself.

Yet on the train that took me from Vienna to Venice, I was expecting something. I was like a convalescent patient being fed rice water, thinking about the first piece of bread he was about to eat. I see a ray of light. Now I know: I'm gearing up for happiness. I will confine myself to the six days I spent in the hills near Vichanse. I am still there, or rather I am sometimes in that place again, and often everything leaves me with a rosemary scent.

I entered Italy. This land was created for my soul. I approached it and recognized its signs one after another: this was the first house with stone tiles that I saw, this was the first grapevine that covered the walls that had been turned green by copper sulfate treatment, This was the first piece of clothing I saw hanging in the yard, in disarray. The men are unruly. This is the first cypress tree I have seen (it is so slender and tall), the first earth-gray olive tree and fig tree. Small Italian towns are full of dark squares.

At noon, when the slow and lazy flock of pigeons is looking for a place to perch, the soul loses its fighting spirit among them. *** Crying to tears step by step. Then I came to Vishans. Here, the days revolve around themselves, from the rooster's crow in the morning to the unparalleled sweetness, tenderness, and silky smoothness of the night, with the constant chirping of cicadas hidden behind the cypress trees. This inner silence that accompanies me arises from the slow movement day after day. What else could I wish for but this room facing the plain, with its antique furniture and hooked lace? I faced the entire sky, facing the rotation of time, and I seemed to be able to follow it without stopping and standing still. I longed for the only happiness I could have—a focused and kind consciousness. I spent the whole day walking: I descended from the hills to Vichans, or I went further out into the fields. Every person I meet, every smell on the street, all these are reasons for me to love infinitely. Watching the young women in the resort area, the ice cream vendors blowing their horns (their vehicles are gondolas with wheels and bunks), the fruit stalls filled with red flesh and black seed watermelon, transparent sweet and sticky grapes - —Everyone who no longer knows how to be alone has someone to rely on. However, on September nights, people feel that the soft singing in the tips of cicadas, the fragrance of running water and stars, the fragrant passages of frankincense and pistacia and reeds are all signs of love for those who are forced to be alone. . The days passed like this. After the dazzling moments of sunshine, night falls, and the golden color of the setting sun and the dark shadow of the cypress trees make the surrounding scenery dazzling. So I walked towards the avenue, towards the sound of cicadas singing in the distance. As I walked along, they slowed down their singing one by one, and then fell silent. I walked forward slowly, overwhelmed by the hot beauty. Behind me, the cicadas competed to raise their voices, and then sang: This is the mystery in the sky where indifference and beauty fall. Taking advantage of the setting sun, I read the words on the pediment of a villa: "Spirit is born in noble nature." I should stop there. The first star appeared in the sky, and then three lights appeared on the opposite hill. Night fell unknowingly, and there was a whisper in the bushes behind me and a breeze. The day left its warmth and sweetness to me, and then disappeared.

Of course, I haven't changed, I just feel lonelier. In Prague, I was suffocated within four walls. And here I face the world, I am thrown around me, I fill the universe with many images similar to myself, for I have not yet spoken of the sun. Just as it took me a long time to understand my attachment to and love for the poor world in which I spent my childhood, so only now do I have an inkling of the lesson of the sun and watching the homeland where I was born. I left towards noon, heading towards a familiar spot overlooking the broad plains of Vichanse. The sun was almost above the rooftops, and the sky was dark blue and airy. All the light falling from the sky enveloped the hillside, giving the cypress and olive trees, the white houses, and the red roofs the hottest color, and then disappeared on the smoky plain in the sun. Each time it ends up disappearing in the same way. I have the horizontal shadow of the short, fat man on my body. And on these plains that rotate with the sun, in the dust, on these bare hills covered with scorched grass and scabs, what my fingers touch is all the taste of nothingness in myself and nothing. In the form of a fascination, this country brought me back into myself and made me face my secret anxieties. But that’s Prague’s anxiety, not mine. How to explain it? Admittedly, facing this Italian plain with lush trees, full of sunshine and smiles, I could smell the smell of death and inhumanity that had been following me for a month more clearly than elsewhere. Yes, this tearless fullness, this joyless peace that fills me, all this is caused only by a clear awareness of what is no longer coming back to me, that is, by a renunciation and indifference. Just like a man who is dying and already knows that he is dying does not care about the fate of his wife (except in novels). He realized that human nature is selfish, which means desperate. To me, there are no immortal promises in this country. Without eyes to see Vichanse, without hands to touch the grapes of Vichanse, without skin to feel the nights on the road from Monteparico to Villa Valle Marana, what could I have in my soul? What about getting active again?

Yes, this is true.

But at the same time, something I can't quite put my finger on entered me with the sun. At this pinnacle of extreme consciousness everything comes together again, and my life appears to me as a whole to be discarded or to be accepted. I need a kind of greatness. I found this greatness in the confrontation between my deep despair and the secret indifference of one of the most beautiful places in the world. I draw strength from it to be both brave and aware. One thing so difficult and so ridiculous is enough for me. But maybe, I had forced something that I had felt so accurately at the time. Besides, I now go back to Prague often and relapse into the lifeless days I experienced there. I'm back in my city. Sometimes, just the smell of sour cucumber and vinegar brings back my worries. Then I have to think of Vishance. But both are dear to me, and it is difficult for me to separate my love for light, for life, from my attachment to the despairing experience I am about to describe. People have figured it out, and me, I don't want to make up my mind to choose. In the outskirts of Algeria, there is a small cemetery with a black iron gate. If you go all the way to the end, you can find the valley and the bay. Facing this sacrificial land that stands side by side with the sea, people can indulge in their dreams for a long time. However, when people turn back, they will find a "deep condolences" tombstone on a forgotten tomb. Fortunately, there are all kinds of idealists who make things right.

(Translated by Du Xiaozhen)

Appreciation

From this article "The Death of the Soul" we can see Camus's writing style: the language is concise and concise, the narrative is objective and calm, Perceptual understanding and rational speculation are intertwined. This article takes the form of a self-narration, telling the protagonist's ordinary experiences while traveling in Prague and other places, as well as his intense inner anxiety and struggle. The protagonist arrived in a completely unfamiliar place with a language barrier, a different culture, and financial constraints. He had to stay for 6 days before a friend came to help him. During this time, he barely spoke, could not communicate with the people around him, and lived a meaningless life in isolation. The environment described by Camus is unfamiliar to readers, but there is something familiar in it, which is our various feelings about the world and daily life. Isn’t the protagonist’s perception exactly what we experience repeatedly? In the process of reading, Prague gradually overlaps with Shanghai, New York, Tokyo, or any city where the reader lives. Triviality, uselessness, alienation, indifference... are so similar in our world. Individuals are destined to be lonely. We repeatedly try to communicate and struggle to approach the world, but frustration still comes from time to time... This is actually a portrayal of the living conditions of modern people, a microcosm of the world seen by existentialists. .

Camus narrates the protagonist's trivial experiences and ideological activities with a naturalistic calmness. In constantly capturing the subtleties, the protagonist's inner anxiety is highlighted. This anxiety is not entirely pessimistic, nor is it accompanied by joy. People struggle and resist in the mediocre world, pursue and experience happiness in the resistance, and still stand tenaciously in the midst of absurdity and fate. Underneath the familiar Camusian calmness, we can still vaguely feel the excitement of life. Prague, Silesia, Venice, Algeria. Inns, restaurants, streets, monasteries, cemeteries. The disgusting dishes, the dead people, the olive trees... There is no need to look for any clear metaphor in what we read, if anything it consists of nothing but vast meaninglessness. The protagonist thinks alone, and then becomes even more lonely, but stronger. Feel the unavoidable nihility in real life, and this nihility condenses into reality again. "I found this greatness in the confrontation between my deep despair and the secret indifference of one of the most beautiful scenes in the world." This is the core of Camus's thought: human dignity. In the inevitable pessimistic atmosphere of existential philosophy, this is a neutralizing agent, the last line... the last weapon to resist despair. In a devastated world, facing everything that comes under pressure from outside the individual, the desire for dignity arouses lofty beliefs in people's hearts, allowing people to retain the meaning of existence. Camus makes us see that after analyzing and despairing about the absurd world and human nature, and in endless contemplation and anxiety, man never abandons his dignity.

(Wang Xiaoke)