CAMUS
Extraits du discours de Stockholm,10 décembre 1957,
pour la réception du prix Nobel de littérature
Saxophones :
Carl-Emmanuel Fisbach
Jérôme Laran
Michel Supéra
Nicolas Prost
Musique : Jean-Denis Michat
Fernande Decruck International Competition for Saxophone
Mairie du 3e arrondissement de Paris.
8 septembre 2022
www.jdmichat.com
Art is not for me a solitary enjoyment. It is a means of moving the greatest number of men by offering them a privileged image of common sufferings and joys. It therefore obliges the artist not to separate; it submits him to the humblest and most universal truth. And the one who often chose his destiny as an artist because he felt different quickly learns that he will only nourish his art, and his difference, by admitting his resemblance to everyone. The artist forges himself in this perpetual back and forth from him to others (…)
This is why true artists despise nothing; they force themselves to understand instead of judging. And if they have a side to take in this world, it can only be that of a society where, according to Nietzsche's great word, the judge will no longer reign, but the creator (…)
He cannot put himself today at the service of those who make history: he is at the service of those who suffer from it. (...)
But the silence of an unknown prisoner, abandoned to humiliations on the other side of the world, is enough to pull the writer out of exile each time, at least, that he manages, in the midst of the privileges of freedom, to not to forget this silence, and to relay it to make it resound by the means of art. (...)
Each generation, no doubt, believes itself destined to remake the world. Mine knows however that it will not remake it. But his task is perhaps greater. It consists in preventing the world from unraveling. Heir to a corrupt history where fallen revolutions, techniques gone mad, dead gods and exhausted ideologies mingle, where mediocre powers can destroy everything today but no longer know how to convince, where intelligence has lowered to the point of making itself the servant of hatred and oppression, this generation had, within itself and around it, to restore, from its only negations, a little of what makes the dignity of living and die.
(...) As for me, I must say once again that I am none of that. I have never been able to renounce the light, the happiness of being, the free life in which I grew up. But although this nostalgia explains many of my mistakes and faults, it has undoubtedly helped me to better understand my profession, it still helps me to stand, blindly, with all these silent men who cannot bear, in the world, the life that is made for them only by the memory or the return of brief and free happiness.
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