{"id":163553,"date":"2023-03-14T11:00:49","date_gmt":"2023-03-14T15:00:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=163553"},"modified":"2023-03-16T12:12:42","modified_gmt":"2023-03-16T16:12:42","slug":"camuss-new-york-diary-1946","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/","title":{"rendered":"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Camel cigarettes billboard in Times Square, 1943. Photograph by John Vachon. Courtesy of the Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Farm Security Administration\/Office of War Information Black-\u00adand-\u00adWhite Negatives.<\/p><\/div>\n

March 1946. Albert Camus has just spent two weeks at sea on the <\/em>SS Oregon, a cargo ship transporting passengers from Le Havre to New York City. He’s made several friends during this transatlantic passage.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Sunday.<\/em> They announce we\u2019ll arrive in the evening. The week passed in a whirlwind. Tuesday evening, the twenty-first, our table decides to celebrate the arrival of spring. Alcohol until four in the morning. The next day, too. Forty-\u00adeight hours of pleasant euphoria, during which all our relationships quickly deepen. Mme D. is rebelling against her class. L. confesses to me the marriage she\u2019s headed for is one of convenience. On Saturday, we exit the Gulf Stream, and the temperature turns awfully chilly. Nevertheless, the time passes very quickly, and ultimately, I\u2019m not in such a rush to arrive. I\u2019ve finished preparing my talk. In the remaining time, I gaze out at the sea and chat, mostly with R., who\u2019s really quite smart\u2014and with Mme D. and L., of course. At twelve in the afternoon, we catch sight of land. Seagulls have been flying alongside the boat since morning, hanging above the decks as if suspended and motionless. Coney Is\u00adland, which looks like the Porte d\u2019Orl\u00e9ans, is the first thing we see. \u201cIt\u2019s Saint-\u00adDenis or Gennevilliers,\u201d L. says. It\u2019s absolutely true. In the cold, with the gray wind and flat sky, it\u2019s all rather gloomy. We\u2019ll anchor in the mouth of the Hudson but won\u2019t dis\u00adembark until tomorrow morning. In the distance, Manhattan\u2019s skyscrapers stand against a backdrop of mist. My heart is still and cold, as it is when faced with sights that don\u2019t move me.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Monday. <\/em>Went to bed very late last night. Got up very early. We sail through New York Harbor. A tremendous sight despite, or because of, the fog. Order, power, economic strength, they\u2019re all here. The heart trembles before so much remarkable inhumanity.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t disembark until eleven o\u2019clock, after a long series of formalities where, out of all the passengers, I\u2019m the one treated as suspect. The immigration officer ends up apologizing for having kept me. \u201cI was required to do so, but I can\u2019t tell you why.\u201d A mystery\u2014but after five years of occupation \u2026<\/p>\n

Welcomed by C., E., and an envoy from the consulate. C. hasn\u2019t changed. E. either. With the whole circus over at immigration, the goodbyes with L., Mme D., and R. are quick and cold.<\/p>\n

Tired. My flu is coming back. I catch my first glimpse of New York on shaky legs. At first sight, a hideous, inhuman city. But I know people can change their mind. Here are the details that strike me: the garbage collectors wear gloves, the traffic is orderly, without the need for officers at the intersections, et cetera, no one ever has any change in this country, and everyone looks as if they\u2019ve just stepped off a low\u00ad-budget film set. In the evening, crossing Broadway in a taxi, tired and feverish, I\u2019m literally staggered by the circus of bright lights. I\u2019ve come from five years of night, and this intense and violent illumination is the first thing that gives me the impression of being on a new continent (a huge fifteen-meter billboard advertising Camels: a GI, his mouth wide open, lets out huge puffs of real <\/em>smoke. All of it yellow and red). I go to bed as sick at heart as in body but knowing perfectly well that I\u2019ll have changed my mind in two days.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Tuesday. <\/em>Get up with a fever. Unable to leave the room before noon. When E. arrives, I\u2019m a little better, and I go with him and D., an adman originally from Hungary, for lunch at a French restaurant. I notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers<\/em>, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale. And in any case, you can\u2019t always walk around with your head turned up. A person can keep only so many floors in sight at once. Magnificent food shops. Enough to make all of Europe burst. I admire the women in the streets, the hues of their dresses, and the color of the taxis, which look like insects dressed in their Sunday best, red and yellow and green. As for the tie shops, you have to see them to believe them. So much bad taste hardly seems imaginable. D. assures me Americans don\u2019t like ideas. That\u2019s what they say. I don\u2019t really trust \u201cthey.\u201d<\/p>\n

At three o\u2019clock, I go see R\u00e9gine Junier. Admirable spinster who sends me everything she can afford because her father died of tuberculosis when he was twenty-seven, and so \u2026 She lives in two rooms, amid a mountain of homemade hats that are exceptionally ugly. But nothing could overshadow the generous and attentive heart that shines through in everything she says. I leave her, devoured by fever and unable to do anything but go back to bed. Too bad for the scheduled meetings. New York\u2019s smell\u2014a perfume of iron and cement\u2014the iron dominates.<\/p>\n

In the evening, dinner at Rubens [sic] with L. M. He tells me the very \u201cAmerican tragedy\u201d story of his secretary. Married to a man with whom she\u2019s had two children, she and her mother come to find out the husband\u2019s a homosexual. Separation. The mother, a puritanical Protestant, works on the daughter for months, instilling the idea in her that her children are going to become degenerates. The idiot ends up suffocating one and strangling the other. Declared not guilty by reason of insanity, she\u2019s set free. L. M. tells me his personal theory about Ameri\u00adcans. It\u2019s the fifteenth one I\u2019ve heard.<\/p>\n

On the corner of East First Street, a small bistro where a screaming mechanical phonograph drowns out all conversation. To get five minutes of silence, you have to put in five cents.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Wednesday. <\/em>A little better this morning. Liebling, from The<\/em> New Yorker<\/em>, visits. Charming man. Chiaramonte then Rub\u00e9. These last two and I have lunch at a French restaurant. Ch. speaks of America as no one else does, in my opinion. I point out a funeral home to him. He tells me how it works. One of the ways to understand a country is to know how people die there. Here, everything is planned. \u201cYou die and we do the rest,\u201d the pro\u00admotional flyers say. Cemeteries are private property: \u201cHurry up and secure your spot.\u201d It\u2019s all bought and sold, the transport, the ceremony, et cetera. A dead man is a man who has lived a full life. At Gilson\u2019s place, radio. Then at my place with Vercors, Thimerais, and O\u2019Brien. We discuss tomorrow\u2019s talk. At six o\u2019clock, a drink with Gral at the Saint\u00ad Regis. I walk back to the hotel along Broadway, lost in the crowd and the enormous illuminated signs. Yes, there\u2019s an American tragedy. It\u2019s what\u2019s oppressed me since I arrived here, though I don\u2019t know what it\u2019s made of yet.<\/p>\n

On Bowery Street, a street where the bridal shops stretch for more than five hundred meters. I eat alone in the restaurant from this afternoon. And I come back to write.<\/p>\n

The Negro question. We sent a man from Martinique on assignment here. We put him up in Harlem. Vis\u00ad-\u00e0-\u00advis his French colleagues, he saw, for the first time, he wasn\u2019t of the same race. An observation to the contrary: an average American sit\u00adting in front of me on the bus stood to give his seat to an older Negro lady.<\/p>\n

Impression of overflowing wealth. Inflation is on the way, an American tells me.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Thursday. <\/em>Spent the day dictating my talk. A few jitters in the evening, but I head straight out, and the audience is \u201cglued.\u201d But then, while I\u2019m speaking, someone filches the cashbox, the proceeds of which were to go to French children. At the end of the talk, O\u2019Brien announces what\u2019s happened, and someone in the audience stands up to suggest everyone give the same amount on the way out that they gave on the way in. On the way out, everyone gives much more and the proceeds are considerable. Typical of American generosity. Their hospitality and cordiality are also like this, immediate and without affectation. This is what\u2019s best about them.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Their fondness for animals. A multistory pet shop: canaries on the second floor, great apes at the top. A couple of years ago, a man was arrested on Fifth Avenue for driving a giraffe around in his truck. He explained that his giraffe didn\u2019t get enough air out in the suburbs where he kept it and that he\u2019d found this to be a good way to get it some air. In Central Park, a lady brought a gazelle to graze. To the court, she explained that the gazelle was a person. \u201cYet it doesn\u2019t speak,\u201d the judge said. \u201cOh, yes, it speaks the language of lovingkindness.\u201d Five\u00ad-dollar fine. There\u2019s also the three-\u00adkilometer tunnel under the Hudson and the impressive bridge to New Jersey.<\/p>\n

After the talk, a drink with Schiffrin and Dolor\u00e8s Vanetti\u2014 who speaks the purest slang I\u2019ve ever heard\u2014and with others, too. Madame Schiffrin asks if I was ever an actor.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Friday. <\/em>Knopf. Eleven o\u2019clock. Cream of the crop. Broadcasting. Gilson\u2019s a nice guy. We\u2019ll go see the Bowery together. I have lunch with Rub\u00e9 and J. de Lannux [sic], who drives us around New York afterward. Beautiful blue sky that reminds me we\u2019re at the same latitude as Lisbon, which is hard to imagine. In tune with the flow of traffic, the gold\u00ad-lit skyscrapers turn and spin in the blue above our heads. A moment of pleasure.<\/p>\n

We go to [Fort] Tryon Park above Harlem, where we tower over the Bronx on one side and the Hudson on the other. Mag\u00adnolias blooming pretty much everywhere. I try a new type of these ice cream <\/em>that I enjoy so much. Another moment of pleasure.<\/p>\n

At four o\u2019clock Bromley is waiting for me at the hotel. We\u2019re off to New Jersey. Immense landscape of factories, bridges, and railroads. Then, all of a sudden, East Orange, the most postcard-\u00adperfect countryside there could be, with thousands of cottages, neat and tidy, set down like toys amid the tall poplars and magnolias. They take me to see the small public library, bright and cheery and used by the whole neighborhood\u2014with its giant children\u2019s reading room. (Finally a country that really takes care of its children.) I look up philosophy in the card catalogue: W. James and that\u2019s it.<\/p>\n

At Bromley\u2019s, American hospitality (though his father is from Germany). We work on the translation of Caligula<\/em>, which he\u2019s finished. He explains to me that I don\u2019t know how to handle my own publicity, that I have a \u201cstanding\u201d I should be taking advantage of and that Caligula<\/em>\u2019s success here will allow me\u2014my children and me\u2014to be free from want. According to his calculations, I\u2019ll earn $1.5 million. I laugh, and he shakes his head. \u201cOh, you have no sense<\/em>.\u201d He\u2019s the best of fellows, and he wants us to go to Mexico together. (Nota: he\u2019s an American who doesn\u2019t drink!)<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Saturday. <\/em>R\u00e9gine. I take over the gifts I brought for her, and she sheds tears of happiness.<\/p>\n

A drink at Dolor\u00e8s\u2019s, then R\u00e9gine takes me to see some American department stores. I think of France. In the evening, dinner with L. M. From the top of the Plaza, I admire the is\u00adland, covered in its stone monsters. At night, with its millions of illuminated windows and tall black building faces blinking and flashing halfway up to heaven, it makes me think of a gigantic blaze burning itself out, leaving thousands of immense, black carcasses along the horizon, studded with smoldering embers. The charming countess.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Sunday. <\/em>A stroll to Staten Island with Chiaramonte and Abel. On the way back, in Lower Manhattan, immense geological ex\u00adcavations between tightly packed skyscrapers. As we walk past, the feeling of something prehistoric overtakes us. We have din\u00adner in China Town [sic]. For the first time, I\u2019m able to breathe easy, finding real life there, teeming and steady, just as I like it.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Monday morning. <\/em>Stroll with Georgette Pope, who came all the way to my hotel, God knows why. She\u2019s from New Caledo\u00adnia. \u201cWhat is your husband\u2019s job?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMagician!\u201d<\/p>\n

From the top of the Empire State Building, in a glacial wind, we admire New York, its ancient waters and flood of stone.<\/p>\n

At lunch, Saint-\u00adEx\u2019s wife\u2014an exuberant person\u2014tells us that back in San Salvador her father had had, alongside seventeen legitimate children, forty bastards, each of whom received a hectare of land.<\/p>\n

Evening, interview at the \u00c9cole Libre des Hautes \u00c9tudes. Tired, I go to Broadway with J. S.<\/p>\n

Rolley skating<\/em> [sic] on West Fifty-Second Street. A huge velodrome cov\u00adered in red velvet and dust. In a rectangular box perched close beneath the ceiling, an old woman plays a most eclectic mix of tunes on a pipe organ. Hundreds of sailors, of girls dressed for the occasion in jumpsuits, pass from arm to arm in an infernal racket of metal wheels and pipe organ. This description could be pushed further.<\/p>\n

Then Eddy et L\u00e9on [Leon & Eddie’s], a charmless club. To make up for it, J. S. and I have ourselves photographed as Adam and Eve, like one of those photographs you find at fairs, where there are two completely naked cardboard cutouts with openings at the head where you can put your face through.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

These diaries are adapted from <\/em>Travels in the Americas: Notes and Impressions of a New World by Albert Camus, edited by Alice Kaplan and translated by Ryan Bloom and with annotations by Alice Kaplan and Ryan Bloom, to be published by the University of Chicago Press in April. First published in the French as <\/em>Journaux de voyage by \u00c9ditions Gallimard<\/em>.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
Albert Camus (1913\u20131960) was a French philosopher, writer, and journalist. His books include the novels <\/em>The Stranger,<\/em>\u00a0The Plague, and\u00a0<\/em>The Fall, and the philosophical works\u00a0<\/em>The Myth of Sisyphus\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>The Rebel.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
Ryan Bloom\u00a0is an essayist and translator who teaches creative writing and literature at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. He is the translator of Albert Camus\u2019s\u00a0<\/em>Notebooks: 1951\u20131959.<\/em><\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

Alice Kaplan\u00a0is the Sterling Professor of French and Director of the Whitney Humanities Center at Yale University. She is coauthor of<\/em>\u00a0States of Plague, with Laura Marris, and author of<\/em>\u00a0French Lessons,\u00a0Looking for \u201cThe Stranger,\u201dand<\/em>\u00a0Dreaming in French, all also published by the University of Chicago Press.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2337,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68416],"tags":[3783,7682,67827],"class_list":["post-163553","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-diaries","tag-albert-camus","tag-diaries","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nCamus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946 by Albert Camus<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 14, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946 by Albert Camus\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"March 14, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2023-03-14T15:00:49+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2023-03-16T16:12:42+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1338\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"988\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Albert Camus\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Albert Camus\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"13 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Albert Camus\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/8993776c52eb452b512af840fe0f1bfa\"},\"headline\":\"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946\",\"datePublished\":\"2023-03-14T15:00:49+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2023-03-16T16:12:42+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\"},\"wordCount\":2564,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Albert Camus\",\"diaries\",\"Featured\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Diaries\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\",\"name\":\"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946 by Albert Camus\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2023-03-14T15:00:49+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2023-03-16T16:12:42+00:00\",\"description\":\"March 14, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg\",\"width\":1338,\"height\":988,\"caption\":\"m\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/8993776c52eb452b512af840fe0f1bfa\",\"name\":\"Albert Camus\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/6fdd655b6ffcde2cf08838a77852565559cf66414ba8532f94d86ff773d63a25?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/6fdd655b6ffcde2cf08838a77852565559cf66414ba8532f94d86ff773d63a25?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Albert Camus\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/acamus\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946 by Albert Camus","description":"March 14, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946 by Albert Camus","og_description":"March 14, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2023-03-14T15:00:49+00:00","article_modified_time":"2023-03-16T16:12:42+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1338,"height":988,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Albert Camus","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Albert Camus","Est. reading time":"13 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/"},"author":{"name":"Albert Camus","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/8993776c52eb452b512af840fe0f1bfa"},"headline":"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946","datePublished":"2023-03-14T15:00:49+00:00","dateModified":"2023-03-16T16:12:42+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/"},"wordCount":2564,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg","keywords":["Albert Camus","diaries","Featured"],"articleSection":["Diaries"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/","name":"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946 by Albert Camus","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg","datePublished":"2023-03-14T15:00:49+00:00","dateModified":"2023-03-16T16:12:42+00:00","description":"March 14, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI notice that I haven\u2019t noticed the skyscrapers, that they\u2019ve seemed only natural. It\u2019s a question of overall scale.\u201d","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/camus-camel.jpg","width":1338,"height":988,"caption":"m"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/03\/14\/camuss-new-york-diary-1946\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Camus\u2019s New York Diary, 1946"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/8993776c52eb452b512af840fe0f1bfa","name":"Albert Camus","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/6fdd655b6ffcde2cf08838a77852565559cf66414ba8532f94d86ff773d63a25?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/6fdd655b6ffcde2cf08838a77852565559cf66414ba8532f94d86ff773d63a25?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Albert Camus"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/acamus\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/163553","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2337"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=163553"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/163553\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":163693,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/163553\/revisions\/163693"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=163553"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=163553"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=163553"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}