In the literary field, it can be assumed that both writer and reader are in constant search of a “good story” (Bennett and Royle, 55). Authors carry out this endeavor by creating works that hopefully engage with readers in matters of culture, emotion, psychology, gender, economics, etc. Readers, both professional and amateur, look for works that resonate with them in a variety of ways, often leading to differing conclusions as to the meaning, value, and success of any particular book or short story. Ironically, while writers attempt to compose their works in ways that impart significant truths to the reader, these truths may be overlooked by the reader or underemphasized by the author. D. F. Hurley suggests, “Interpretations and evaluations make stories into sites where debates over values and power take place” (Hurley, 92). Substantiating this, Bennett and Royle state, “The telling of a story is always bound up with power, with questions of authority, property and domination” (Bennett and Royle, 52). Thus, some works defy simple conclusions and normal analyses sought after by both author and reader.
This reality is evident when reading Albert Camus’ “The Guest”—a short story about a French-Algerian schoolmaster who is forced to leave his comfortable lodgings in order to deliver an Arabian convict to a local prison. In Camus’ existentialist narrative, several instances of political oppression contrasting with individual freedom can be perceived; however, the overall significance of the characters, plot development, etc. are left open, which stirs up matters of debate in literary circles today. As Muhlestein remarks, “Key aspects of the story are still in controversy, including what to make of Daru [the protagonist]” (Muhlestein, 223). Furthermore, Camus’ purpose and methods for writing “The Guest” appears to challenge literary conventions of narrative power and enlightenment assumed by many (such as Bennett and Royle) to be a requirement of the “good story” or at least of a typical one.
“The Guest” presents to the reader a dramatic narrative in which Daru, the Algerian, is depicted in battle for control over his own circumstances and in which the final outcome for Daru’s “Guest” (the Arab) is uncertain. These two characters (if not all of the characters) are given some opportunity to voice or affect their liberties. This is a crucial aspect for Bennett and Royle who state, “Narrative power, then, may be the only strategy left for the weak and dispossessed: without narrative power, they may not be heard” (Bennett and Royle, 58). In literary works, the narrator should provide a chance for the oppressed characters to voice their frustrations and hopes in the story. Sometimes the author of a narrative uses his or her story to champion for an idea or person that otherwise would have been ignored or suppressed by dominant powers. This typically provides an opportunity for positive movement in the story for the oppressed to lessen their burdens, at least philosophically if not physically. Yet, Interestingly, if this is true, it is hardly evident in “The Guest,” for all the characters share the same situational impotence and frustration from the beginning to the end of this tale—it is if they are yelling into the desert winds and only can be barely heard.
Camus begins his story with Daru’s warm, comfortable, and uncomplicated fortress of solitude adjacent to the “empty, frigid classroom” (Camus, 86) being threatened with the presence of two approaching men. The tension rises in the narrative as the men get closer and closer and the narrator tells a bit about Daru and the political circumstances surrounding his life. Daru lives a Spartan existence “nonetheless satisfied with the little he had and with the rough life, [for he] had felt like a lord with his whitewashed walls, his narrow couch, his unpainted shelves, his well, and his weekly provision of water and food” (Camus, 88). When confronted with his appointed duty, Daru initially resists being saddled with delivering the Arab and tells the soldier that "every bit of this disgusts me, and first of all your fellow here. But I won't hand him over. Fight, yes, if I have to. But not that" (Camus, 95), yet Daru effectively basically acquiesces to the authorities’ demands in the end. Balducci, the soldier delivering the Arab, is sympathetic to Daru but remarks to him that he is only following orders, that “the orders exist and they concern you [Daru] too (Camus, 91-92), and that “No one is safe, we're all in the same boat" (Camus, 94). The Arab, perhaps the most weak and dispossessed figure in this story, when given the opportunity to defend himself in a “woeful interrogation” with Daru, remains silent and “open-mouthed” (Camus, 100).
Finally, when Daru returns to the schoolhouse after risking his own freedom by providing an escape route for the Arab, Daru is confronted with a threatening note on the blackboard, which states, "You handed over our brother. You will pay for this" (Camus, 109). Daru is powerless to respond in defense to the Arab’s allies’ allegations and threat, so is left feeling “alone” (Camus, 109) and without options. His cherished home has now become enemy territory, and he has become “the Guest.” Again, Camus has provided a voice for the weak and powerless in this novel, but no accompanying direct strategy for rescue or change, although Camus has provided an indirect strategy, perhaps, for Daru and the Arab.
Camus’ characters are clearly good examples of the unheard voice referred to in the aforementioned Bennett and Royle quotation. Daru is clearly being presented as one of the “weak and dispossessed” (Bennett and Royle, 58), as is the Arab and the soldier. Balducci, the soldier in the story, pays no attention to Daru’s complaints about being left with the Arab for he was, too; the Arab is presented only as a pawn in this game of war and submissively accepts his fate without any fight. However, “The Guest” demonstrates the passive-aggressive strategy of Daru to free himself of both the unwanted duty of turning over the Arab to the prison and of implicating himself by actively freeing the man. Thus, the narrative options of delivery or freeing of the Arab prisoner is not the only strategy presented in “The Guest.” Daru attempts to avoid his obligation (and accompanying guilt) by empowering the Arab to affect his escape.
In existentialist fashion, the narrator has given both Daru and the Arab opportunities to assert their individuality by having Daru allow the Arab to choose which path to take—either to prison or freedom. Thus, both men are presented at crossroads of their own decisions—each one risking their liberties and life. Of course, in the end, it still ends up a potentially pointless act for “Daru, with heavy heart, made out the Arab walking slowly on the road to prison” (Camus, 109) and Daru’s life is threatened when he returns home. Nevertheless, unconventional options were provided in this narrative by Camus for Daru, the Arab, and, possibly, for protagonists in other stories in situations concerning powerlessness and oppression. However, these alternatives are not without risk or consequence to the individual and neither do they guarantee success—as is the case for all human beings. The overall effect of this narrative choice has led many to feel frustrated by Camus’ story, but perhaps that was part of Camus’ incentive—to help readers feel the existentialist angst.
Additionally, the overall purpose and meaning behind this narrative has left some literary critics unsure of their final evaluation of “The Guest.” Muhlestein calls it “a puzzling text” (Muhlestein, 223) and Hurley states that it “deserves special scrutiny now” (Hurley, 79) considering the change in international politics. Beyond such political interpretations that may lend themselves to Deconstructionism, questions still remain concerning this story regarding Daru’s treatment of the Arab, and the Arab’s choice to continue on to prison alone. As Bennett and Royle suggest, readers read out of curiosity and have an innate desire to understand why a character does what he/she does in the end of the story. This concluding knowledge brings them satisfaction; therefore, any story that fails this objective creates an imbalanced reader/story relationship and frustrates the readers’ expectations. People need closure, presumably. They state, “A part of the equilibrium that endings apparently offer is the satisfaction of epistemophilia, the reader’s desire to know” (Bennett and Royle, 55).
Camus could have provided the key information for these characters’ motivations. Yet, the key passage detailing the actions of both Daru and the Arab lack any clear indication for either character’s choices. Instead, only uncertainty and frustration are presented to the reader. Camus writes,
He [Daru] turned his back on him, took two long steps in the direction of the school, looking hesitantly at the motionless Arab and started off again. For a few minutes he heard nothing but his own step resounding on the cold ground and did not turn his head. A moment later, however, he turned around. The Arab was still there on the edge of the hill his arms hanging now, and he was looking at the schoolmaster. Daru felt something rise in his throat. But he swore with impatience, waved vaguely, and started off again. He had already gone some distance when he again stopped and looked. There was no longer anyone on the hill.
Daru hesitated. The sun was now rather high in the sky and was beginning to beat down on his head. The schoolmaster retraced his steps at first somewhat uncertainly then with decision. When he reached the little hill he was bathed in sweat. He climbed it as fast as he could and stopped. Out of breath at the top. The rock-fields to the south stood out sharply against the blue sky but on the plain to the east a steamy heat was already rising. And in that slight haze Daru with heavy heart made out the Arab walking slowly on the road to prison (Camus, 108-109).
Bennett and Royle’s aforementioned understanding of endings is definitely challenged by this passage for it fails their test of epistemophilia. If final knowledge is necessary for reader equilibrium, then this story comes up lacking, but this assumes that all readers are of the same mindset—an uncertain notion at best. The reader is informed of both the indecision of the Arab and the anger of Daru over the Arab’s passivity, but not why either character ultimately feels that way. Does the Arab go the way to prison because he is stupid? Is it because he is hoping his submission will grant him mercy? For Daru, is he frustrated because the Arab has chosen imprisonment over freedom, or is he afraid the prison authorities will now know for certain he shirked his responsibilities and, in fact, was incredibly inept at his job? These questions go unanswered in the end, leading to “40 years of analysis” (Muhlestein, 223).
Additionally, whether the Arab will flee to safety or imprisonment is undetermined for Daru only sees the Arab walking slowly to the prison; the reader never finds out if the Arab makes it there or changes his mind. Furthermore, later on in the story, the final outcome for Daru is also unknown as his own life is threatened by the Arab’s brothers despite his “help” to him. Ironically, Daru’s life at the schoolhouse has become a prison, too, and he also is faced with the choice to stay or flee for his life—should he flee to safety or stay the course? As such, the reader is kept in limbo until the end of the story (and even after) and no balance or closure is ever actualized for either the protagonist or the reader. Thus, in many ways, this story is a sort of anti-narrative narrative; yet, in its imbalance, this story works well to portray the striving and frustration inherent to human existence.
Some might consider the indecisive “ending” of Daru and the Arab to be only the reality of individual existence. Bennett and Royle’s assumption of adequate knowledge might be unreasonable or unrealistic for all literary works. In fact, knowledge might just lead people to new questions—a conclusion potentially satisfying to some, but not others. With this in mind, Camus might be presenting a tale showing universally what it means to be human—we are all powerless, we all have unwanted obligations, we all must choose to acquiesce or to resist, but the final outcome may remain unsatisfying or undetermined.
Bennett and Royle’s understanding of the narrative has several valid points when it comes to how a storyline typically should be presented (good narratives champion often suppressed voices and provide closure); however, they also point out the “paradoxical attractions of a good story,” as “The Guest” apparently should be labeled. Camus’ existentialist use of tension, irony, and contradiction are evident in the characters’ present actions and the presumed final outcomes for both Daru and the Arab.
Analyzing this story without giving adequate notice to these factors can only lead to greater frustration and confusion. Just as the reader has a motivation for reading a work, so too does the author for writing it. Bennett and Royle state, “We might consider another important aspect of narrative, namely the relation between the teller and listener and reader” (Bennett and Royle, 56). Without acknowledging the existentialist purposefulness of Camus’ narrative structure and its handling of the oppressed voices, “The Guest” could easily be considered a poorly written and unsatisfying story instead of a clever and ingenious narrative about individual moral choices and their consequences.
Works Cited
Bennett, Andrew and Nicholas Royle. 2004. Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory. Great Britain: Pearson Education.
Camus, Albert. 1958. Exile and the Kingdom. U.S.A.: Alfred A. Knopf.
Hurley, D. F. 1993. “Looking for the Arab: Reading the Readings of Camus’s ‘The Guest,’” in Studies in Short Fiction 30: 79-93.
Muhlestein, Daniel K. 1999. “A Teacher and His Student: Subversion and Containment in Camus’s ‘The Guest,’” in Studies in Short Fiction 36: 223-234.