Not quite new, nor hardly so old, in fact, where Camus has already
written most of a seminal substance for being awarded a Nobel Prize in
Literature. Then leaving, in manner, the insufferable wife's schizoid
manifestations developmentally to bear along with his doctor's advice
concerning his own state, a politicised status and learned podium
whereby to lean against upon advancement of, say, the French Algerian
situation, Jean-Paul Sartre, besides, and as always, whenever weren't
there more women and plays to linger upon to perform not least among
leading actresses. . .

A sense of valued humility vaunted before the thrust upon a test to
focus against media for its integrity, life's action and books' words
do juxtapose;- Quite, as Camus reaches around to pat his own back and
explain crashing into a tree, to be instantaneously pronounced dead,
spoiled to rot -- 'Unlike other men, (so cheaply or easily), I don't
rationalize away my feelings or beliefs.' Somehow, I find the
sentimentality freshly reassuringly for French, over a middling sense
of appreciation and turn given to a play, were any less its script
distinctly a French cultural affair to put into adaptation for film.

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