up everything he possessed. It was his honey-moon with Life--this
solitary starved soul saw her as she passed and seized her in his
arms.... Yes, Life passes, the euphoria of a Camus cannot last
forever, but he who has known it lives only in the memory of it, and
in the hope that it may return. War brought this gift, therefore Peace
is an enemy, and enemies are all those who desire it.




Clerambault and Camus exchanged ideas, and to such an extent that
finally Clerambault could not tell which were his own, and as he lost
footing he felt more strongly the need to act; for action was a kind
of justification to himself.... Whom did he wish to justify? Alas, it
was Camus! In spite of his habitual ardour and convictions he was a
mere echo--and of what unhappy voices.

He began to write Hymns to Battle. There was great competition in this
line among poets who did not fight themselves. But there was little
danger that their productions would clog men's memories in future
ages, for nothing in their previous career had prepared these
unfortunates for such a task. In vain they raised their voices and
exhausted all the resources of French rhetoric, the "poilus" only
shrugged their shoulders.

However people in the rear liked them much better than the stories
written in the dark and covered with mud, that came out of the
trenches. The visions of a Barbusse had not yet dawned to show
the truth to these talkative shadows. There was no difficulty for
Clerambault, he shone in these eloquent contests. For he had the fatal