I agree with your criticism of Camus. I never really got into him though, to be honest. I did read
The Stranger, in high school, and I can't remember it all that well now, but I remember thinking it was unintentionally hilarious, in the same way Kierkegaard's aesthete was hilarious in
Either/or (tho K was probably in on that joke himself, while writing it.) My mom died and I felt nothing. Killed that dude, and I feel nothing. Felt sometimes like a hyper-caricature of a bad western, or a bad noir.
Nietzsche's not so bad, but maybe we're in the same boat. I like some of his writing and some of his spirit, while not really feeling like he's some ultra-profound thinker. He's much more interesting on individual authors and passages, and the history around them, than he is on Big Ideas. He was trained a philologist and philology is where he actually shines. People like to say he registered the shocks of his time, like others, but that he alone was able to divine what those shocks would actually mean and where everything was headed. I kind of doubt that. I think a certain type of person NEEDS Nietzsche to be profound to justify other aspects of their life. Nietzsche himself was probably that type of person.
James Joyce - speaking of pretension - has a great treatment of a 20th century 'Nietzschean' in his
Dubliners. It's pitch perfect. First quote is the 'hero' talking to a woman sincerely interested in him. Second is about his life after he pulls away from her. The two quotes are not consecutive in the actual story (called
A Painful Case, totally worth checking out!) (In its way, its even a parody of Camus
avant la lettre. Being schizoid isn't cool or profound or noble, it's just kind of sad.)
She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?
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Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away from concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner of the bank retired. And still every morning he went into the city by tram and every evening walked home from the city after having dined moderately in George’s Street and read the evening paper for dessert. — Joyce