 Recorded books and RB digital present The Fall by Albert Camus, translated by Justin O'Brien, narrated by Eduardo Ballarini from Lermontov. Some were dreadfully insulted, and quite seriously, to have held up as a model such an immoral character as a hero of our time. Others shouldly noticed that the author had portrayed himself and his acquaintances. A hero of our time, gentlemen, is in fact a portrait, but not of an individual. It is the aggregate of the vices of our whole generation in their fullest expression. May I, monsieur, offer my services without running the risk of intruding? I fear you may not be able to make yourself understood by the worthy ape who presides over the fate of this establishment. In fact, he speaks nothing but Dutch. Unless you authorize me to plead your case, he will not guess that you want gin. There, I dare hope he understood me. That nod must mean that he yields to my arguments. He is taking steps. Indeed, he is making haste with prudent deliberation. You are lucky. He didn't grunt. When he refuses to serve someone, he merely grunts. No one insists. Being master of one's moods is the privilege of the larger animals. Now, I shall withdraw, monsieur. Happy to have been of help to you. Thank you. I'd accept if I were sure of not being a nuisance. You are too kind. Then I shall bring my glass over beside yours. You are right. His silence is deafening. It's the silence of the primeval forest, heavy with threats. At times I am amazed by his obstinacy in snubbing civilized languages. His business consists in entertaining sailors of all nationalities in this Amsterdam bar, which for that matter he named, no one knows why, Mexico City. With such duties wouldn't you think there might be some fear that his ignorance would be awkward? Fancy the Krull Magnan man lodged in the Tower of Babel. He would certainly feel out of his element. Yet this one is not aware of his exile. He goes on his own sweet way and nothing touches him. One of the rare sentences I have ever heard from his mouth proclaimed that you could take it or leave it. What did one have to take or leave? Doubtless our friend himself. I confess I am drawn by such creatures who are all of a peace. Anyone who is considerably meditated on man by profession or vocation is led to feel nostalgia for the primates. They at least don't have any ulterior motives. Our host to tell the truth has some, although he harbors them deep within him. As a result of not understanding what is said in his presence, he has adopted a distrustful disposition, whence that look of touchy dignity is if he at least suspected that all is not perfect among men. That disposition makes it less easy to discuss anything with him that does not concern his business. Notice, for instance, on the back wall above his head, that empty rectangle marking the place where a picture has been taken down. Indeed, there was a picture there and a particularly interesting one, a real masterpiece. Well, I was present when the Master of the House received it and when he gave it up. In both cases, he did so with the same distrust after weeks of rumination. In that regard, you must admit that society has somewhat spoiled the frank simplicity of his nature. Mind you, I am not judging him. I consider his distrust justified and should be inclined to share it if, as you see, my communicative nature were not opposed to this. I am talkative, alas, and make friends easily. Although I know how to keep my distance, I seize any and every opportunity. When I used to live in France, where I to meet an intelligent man, I immediately sought his company. If that be foolish, ha, I see you smile at that use of the subjunctive. I confess my weakness for that mood and for fine speech in general. A weakness that I criticize in myself, believe me. I am well aware that an addiction to silk underwear does not necessarily imply that one's feet are dirty. Nonetheless, style, like sheer silk, too often hides eczema. My consolation is to tell myself that after all, those who murder the language are not pure either. My yes, let's have another gin. Are you staying long in Amsterdam? A beautiful city, isn't it? Fascinating. There's an adjective I haven't heard in some time. Not since leaving Paris, in fact, years ago. But the heart has its own memory. And I've forgotten nothing of our beautiful capital nor of its keys. Paris is a real complot. Sample complete. Ready to continue?