Albert Camus (French pronunciation: [albɛʁ kamy] ( listen); 7 November 1913 – 4 January 1960) was a French author, journalist, and philosopher. His views contributed to the rise of the philosophy known as absurdism. He wrote in his essay "The Rebel" that his whole life was devoted to opposing the philosophy of nihilism while still delving deeply into individual freedom.
Although often cited as a proponent of existentialism, the philosophy with which Camus was associated during his own lifetime, he rejected this particular label. In an interview in 1945, Camus rejected any ideological associations: "No, I am not an existentialist. Sartre and I are always surprised to see our names linked..."
In 1949, Camus founded the Group for International Liaisons within the Revolutionary Union Movement, which was opposed to some tendencies of the Surrealist movement of André Breton.
Camus was awarded the 1957 Nobel Prize for Literature "for his important literary production, which with clear-sighted earnestness illuminates the problems of the human conscience in our times". He was the second-youngest recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature, after Rudyard Kipling, and the first African-born writer to receive the award. He is the shortest-lived of any Nobel literature laureate to date, having died in an automobile accident just over two years after receiving the award.
Running around
This run-down, one-horse town
One of these days
They're gonna crucify me
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
It is to be young, dumb, and have lots of money
We will sit upon this grassy knoll
Holding hands and stroking handguns
With pristine souls
And even my own mother will tell you
I am an asshole, but underneath it all
There is an apathetic heart of gold
So who will be saved,
From the least to the greatest men?
Because even Honest Abe
Sold poison milk to schoolchildren
The blood drive came to Glen Rock High
In a white bus with red letters on the side
And a long shiny needle
They brought to suck me dry
Like missionary mosquitoes in the sky
Now you're doing time for stealing candy
From a babe
Because all the kids in Ridgewood have got cell phones these days
And if you wear a mask
They can still read your license plate
And a wireless line
Is a terrible thing to waste
Because the more we think
The less it all makes sense
Tonight we will drink
To our general indifference
Lamb of God
We think nothing of ourselves at all
So, Death, be not proud
Because we don't give a fuck about nothing