TWO COMMITMENTS

Accepting the Nobel Prize in 1957, Camus told the room that whatever a writer’s personal weaknesses, the nobility of the craft rests on two commitments, both hard to keep. The first is the refusal to lie about what you know. The second is resistance to oppression. He was describing his own vocation, but he handed everyone in earshot a usable definition of an honorable life.

Look at how plain the two duties are. Not heroism, not genius, not being right about everything. Just these. Do not lie about what you actually know. And do not go along with the crushing of others. A free person, in Camus’s sense, is someone who holds that double line.

They are harder than they sound, which is why he calls them difficult to maintain. Lying about what you know is the most ordinary thing in the world. We do it to keep the peace, to protect a position, to avoid the awkward silence. And tolerating oppression rarely feels like a decision. It feels like minding your business, like not making a scene, like the reasonable quiet of someone who would rather not get involved. Both failures usually arrive dressed as good manners.

Notice, too, that the commitments are within reach. You may never lead a movement or write a book. You can always decline to say the false thing, and you can refuse to add your weight to the bullying of someone weaker. That is the freedom available on a Tuesday.

Today, hold one of the two lines on purpose. Refuse one comfortable lie, even a small one, or decline to join in when someone is being pushed around. The nobility Camus describes is not saved up for great occasions. It is built out of days like this one.