I could tell them, as I tell myself, that it was in fact the sun that helped me, and that the very thickness of its light coagulates the universe and its forms into a dazzling darkness. but there are other ways of saying this, and I should like - faced with the white and black clarity that for me, has always been the sign of truth - to explain in simple terms what I feel about this absurdity which I know too well to allow anyone to hold forth on it without making certain nuances (…)
I do not kmow what I am looking for, cautiously I give it a name, I withdraw what I said, I repeat myself, I go backward and forward. Yet people insist I identify my term or terms, once and for all. Then I object; when things have a label aren’t they lost already? Here, at least, is what I can try to say.
Albert Camus, The Enigma, in Lyrical and Critical Essays, Vintage books, New York, 1970