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Reading this latest "The First Man" (1995) "published thirty-five years after its discovery amid the wreckage of the car accident that killed its author" (back cover) is of course a bit disappointing due to its evidently unfinished story. Moreover, some of its generously-inserted footnotes have not fully clarified, I think, its readers to appreciate more, rather they seem to distract them into vaguely understandable information, for instance:

Three days ago they had finished over the Atlantic, �, had unraveled� on the Moroccan peaks, �
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b. Solférino. (p. 3)

The horses stopped, and one of them snorted.ª �
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a. Is it night? (p. 9)

He helped out and came back to the lamp, �, while his mother, �, would seat herself by the window in winter, �, and watch the traffic of trolleys, cars, and passersby as it gradually diminished.ª �
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a. Lucien � 14 EPS � 16 Insurance. (p. 228)
etc.

Interestingly, reading Camus is exhausting and demanding since he has written flowingly, that is, from his train of thought; therefore, there are innumerable pages without any paragraph as we can see, for example, in pages 193-195. This is a reason why we need focus and attention while reading him or else we might lose our control and cannot help being serenely lulled, hypnotized and sleepy. However, I found reading him productive and entertaining because we can gradually learn from what he has narrated or described as revealed from some interesting extracts that follow depicting “the story of Jacques Cormery, a boy who lived a life much like his own� (back cover):

Moreover, each book had its own smell according to the paper on which it was printed, always delicate and discreet, but so distinct that with his eyes closed J. could have told a book in the Nelson series from one of the contemporary editions Fasquelle was then publishing. And each of these odors, even before he had begun treading, would transport Jacques to another world full of promises already [kept], that was beginning even now to obscure the room where he was, to blot out the neighborhood itself and its noises, the city, and the whole world, � “Jacques, for the third time, set the table.� Finally he would set the table, his expression empty and without color, a bit staring, as if drunk on his reading, and he would return to his book as if he had never put it down. � (pp. 248-249)

� As soon as his class was announced, he stopped fooling around and became serious. At the sound of his name, he rose, his head buzzing. Behind he could barely hear his mother, who had not heard, saying: “Did he say Cormery?�
“Yes,� said the grandmother, her face flushed with excitement. The cement path he walked along, the platform, the official’s vest with his watch chain, � ; then returning accompanied by the music to the two women who were already standing in the aisle, his mother gazing at him with a sort of astonished joy, and he gave her the thick list of awards to keep, his grandmother with a look calling her neighbors to witness � it all happened too fast after the interminable afternoon, and Jacques was in a hurry to go home and look at the books he had been given. (p. 255)

� Actually, Jacques thought he had a lot to do, what with going swimming, the expeditions to Kouba, sports, �, reading illustrated stories, popular novels, �, and the Saint-Étienne company’s inexhaustible catalogue. Not including errands for the household and small tasks imposed on him by his grandmother. But, to her, all that amounted to doing nothing at all, since the child was not bringing home any money nor was he working as he did during the school year, and in her eyes this free ride was as glaring as the fires of hell. The simplest thing to do was to find him a job. (pp. 261-262)

As advised in the Editor’s Note, we should read the letter Camus wrote to his teacher, Louise Germain, in the appendix and we would see how he respected and appreciated his academic and moral support. His letter was dated on 19 November 1957, that is, after he received the Nobel Prize. An extract:

� But when I heard the news, my first thought, after my mother, was of you. Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching, and your example, none of all this would have happened. I don’t make too much of this sort of honor. �, and to assure you that your efforts, your work, and the generous heart you put into it still live in one of your little schoolboys who, despite the years, has never stopped being your grateful pupil. I embrace you with all my heart. � (p. 321)

In essence, Camus was and is one of the great writers in the 20th century and beyond.