Or, that's not intrinsic meaning - the kind of meaning to be discovered in the world. You might wonder why we need this kind of meaning at all. What's the big deal if the only kind of meaning there is in the world is the kind that we create/impose? I think this is a very good question! Why must the meaning exist independently of us? Camus seems to think that we humans constantly search for this intrinsic meaning and that the world is silent in response to our search, and that it is this combination that is absurd. Perhaps you think we're doing something else?
With the term absurd, Camus did not apply a negative connotation. He didn't believe in God or that there was any meaning to life, but he didn't see it negatively and did not intend for anyone to see it negatively either. He simply observed and interpreted an absence of a universal meaning when it came to the idea of religion or spirituality. He dismissed the idea of God and turned to creating one's own definition of the world, which in his case, was that there was no reason for life--that we are just here to exist--and once we accept that, we are not only free from existential angst through looking for meaning/struggling to create meaning, but also free to live whatever kind of life we wish to live, because there is no pressure to fulfill the meaning bestowed upon us by a God or whatever else. Camus believed that once we accept that there is no meaning, the conflict between a desire for meaning and not finding one is resolved. This view is seen through his "Myth of Sisyphus" when he describes Sisyphus as "stronger than his rock" once he has accepted his fate and stops longing for another one.
The Outsider by Albert Camus – review | Books | The Guardian
Although it is much more than that, Camus’s work can be seen as aprecursor to postmodernism. The postmodernists never wholly embracedCamus as their predecessor, no doubt because of his centralmetaphysical concern with absurdity and revolt, and his penchant forsweeping judgments and reductive analyses—whichdifferentiates The Rebel from far less ambitious and moredescriptive books like Adorno and Horkheimer’s Dialectic ofEnlightenment. But in many ways The Rebel was a model“genealogy” describing the appearance of intrinsiccontradictions of the modern spirit, and Camus’s vision ofself-limiting revolt is a prescient articulation of a post-Marxist andpostmodern leftist politics.
Albert Camus | The Book of Life
The Myth ofSisyphus is far from having a skeptical conclusion. In response tothe lure of suicide, Camus counsels an intensely conscious and activenon-resolution. Rejecting any hope of resolving the strain isalso to reject despair. Indeed, it is possible, within andagainst these limits, to speak of happiness. “Happiness andthe absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable”(MS, 122). It is not that discovering theabsurd leads necessarily to happiness, but rather that acknowledgingthe absurd means also accepting human frailty, an awareness of ourlimitations, and the fact that we cannot help wishing to go beyond whatis possible. These are all tokens of being fully alive.“The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill aman’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy”(MS, 123).
Albert Camus (/ k æ ˈ m uː /; French: ..
That's a step in the right direction, but language militates against us. The conceit of time as extension, as duration, as lasting or survival (absurd on the face of it since life as we know it is constituted as a biological commitment to dying--that is, the complexity of a complex organism, such as the human, is the differentiation of each part that maximizes the potential articulacy of our being alive in exchange for the power of immortal replication) is intrinsic eliminativism. A human is a person. But person is a fundamental dynamism of time. It is not a simple self-interest in surviving or 'self-maximizing', as the early Existentialists might put it, but a rigor in conceit that time is its enduring and its replication which, because that conceit or conviction, the predisposition to view time as a pace of undiffering units preserving or conserving its originary ordering motif, is simply so insufficient to its progression that the most real term of it is the loss of that conceit and its being supervened upon by yet a more developed but just as uncompleted set of laws and ordering principles. Time is anomalous to whatever would define it as replication the same. The new paradigm is no truer than its predecessor. It is up to us to see the difference through which its truer meaning is real, for it is only real lost to that conviction in 'presence' replication or extension. The logic of extension is never true of time, but there is no other mode of rigor by which we can make its truer moment real than to pursue that rigor to the extremity through which that incompletion of formal extension is recognizable. But since it is only loss that is its realest term only the freedom that loss means to its other is its articulation. Loss leaves the remainder responsible of the worth of it. That responsibility is love. Neither that loss nor that love is anything worthy of its time alone. Only the act of loss and the response of love in dynamic assault upon the rigor of formalism hermetic between its beginning and its end, antecedence and consequence, cause and effect, is there anything temporal at all. But what we learn in philosophy courses, especially in America in my lifetime, simply excludes the right, let alone the power, to recognize this. Person is the characterology of a rigor of constancy in conviction through which difference anomalous to and undefined within that conviction comes into being through us, but not as an enduring possession so much as an opportunity freed our respondent to find more meaning in it than continuity can express or imply. Time is intimation, not explication. And so long as we are convinced that proper rigor can only replicate the originary there can be no explicit accounting of this. The monism of the West or the collectivism of the East can neither one of them be a venue for the drama of intimacy through which we have a most personal interest in letting my loss be your emancipation of the continuity of time. We are so committed to ontology of the isolating term that we are blind to the participation in giving time is realness and its most articulate term that loss and love is. The Existentialist had an intuition of all this but were entrenched in the monad, and so failed to extricate themselves from the pessimism of that conviction. Camus himself was a lightweight, and was popular at the time and perhaps provocative today because of his fetish for lobbing bombs which he made no effort to clean up after. I might have expected a lot more interest in this theme, as it was so prevalent fifty years ago, but it seems that either the program is not much listened to or, as I have suspected for some time, philosophy, especially in this the most un-philosophical country in the world, is succeeding in its effort to commit institutional suicide. Being a sop to science is no substitute for the humanity it so thoroughly outlaws or denegrates.