Watch how quickly we form opinions about others. A stranger’s outfit, a colleague’s tone of voice, a friend’s decision we would have made differently. The verdict arrives almost before we have finished observing. We call this discernment, good judgment, common sense. But why the rush?

Camus suggests something uncomfortable: our eagerness to judge is a defensive maneuver. As long as we are the ones handing down assessments, we remain safely in the judge’s seat rather than in the dock. Every verdict we deliver is a small declaration: I am qualified to evaluate. I am above this. I would never.

The moment we stop judging, we become vulnerable. Without a clear position of superiority, we might have to examine ourselves with the same unforgiving eye we turn on others. We might notice that our own choices are just as questionable, our motives just as mixed, our failures just as real.

This is why gossip feels so satisfying and self-examination feels like work. Pointing outward is easy. Turning the lens around takes courage.

True lucidity requires that we slow down the rush to judgment. Not because others deserve our leniency, but because we deserve our own honest attention. Every quick verdict we make about someone else is a question we are avoiding about ourselves.