In a time of masks and quarantine I wanted to see what Camus had to say about the plague. This was a bit of a trudge, however. I found none of the characters or events particularly interesting, and most of the philosophising was pretty pedestrian: a slow and methodical examination of many predictable effects on a small group of educated men. There was none of the startling honesty and clarity and blessed brevity that marked The Stranger out as something great to me. The Plague seemed too staid and distant and devoid of violence; the anger somehow too muted, especially when read as an allegory to Nazi occupation. Maybe I missed something. Maybe it was just capturing the monotony of lockdown, but I have enough of that already. Of course there were some great passages — the idea that humanists disbelieve in pestilence, the exploration of the challenge the suffering of a child poses to faith, and, in the end, the sense that joy is imperilled — but ultimately I was glad to be done with it.
