Present at the End: The Plague by Albert Camus

Like many of you, I've found that carrying awareness of our planetary condition can be both a heavy burden and a call to deeper meaning. In my search for ways to navigate this reality, I've found some of the greatest insights come from unexpected places—like literature that speaks across time.

I thought it might be helpful (and fun?) to explore how certain books might help us, the collapse-aware. I picked philosopher Albert Camus' The Plague because, well, it was the book I read most recently. A second visit. But I also chose it because it hits differently when read as you're entering planetary hospice. Camus' characters show us something vital yet familiar to my fellow Doomees—how to maintain our humanity and help others even when we can't change the ultimate outcome. Even when we've put aside all hope.

Sometimes the best way to face unprecedented challenges is to see how others have walked similar paths. "Enjoy" this little journey, and your own.

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Present at the End

The Plague (1947) is a philosophical novel by French-Algerian author Albert Camus. We enter the city of Oran during its struggle to maintain order and civility during an outbreak of the bubonic plague. As the suffering citizens lose all hope, a small group of volunteers valiantly attempts to witness and resist—by helping others.

There is a moment in the story when Dr. Rieux, exhausted from treating endless patients, confronts a fundamental truth: the plague will run its course regardless of his efforts. Yet each morning, he continues his rounds. His driving fuel isn't hope, not in any conventional sense anyway. It's something far more powerful—a commitment to reducing suffering simply because suffering exists, when he has the capacity to ease it.

Now we stand in the same moment of clarity. Our planetary diagnosis has become undeniable. The results are in. We have entered planetary hospice. Like Oran's plague, the collapse of Earth's systems will run its course. Like those volunteers in Oran, we have to find our way to that same commitment—not to false hope, not to despair, but to presence and purpose in the face of what comes.

The Courage to See Clearly

When the plague first appears in Oran, the citizens move through stages of denial, panic, and eventually a kind of resigned numbness. We see these same responses today in the face of ecological collapse. But Camus shows us, through characters like Rieux and Tarrou, that there is another way—what the Doomee perspective calls "radical acceptance coupled with intentional compassion."

This is acceptance, not surrender. Just as Rieux continues treating patients while fully aware of the plague's inevitability, we are called to maintain our highest capacities for care while accepting the reality of collapse. It's precisely our clear-eyed acceptance that allows us to be truly present and truly helpful.

Finding Purpose in Service

"I have no idea what's awaiting me, or what will happen when this all ends," says Tarrou in the novel. "For the moment I know this: there are sick people and they need curing." This simple altruistic truth is another compass for our own uncertain times. When the future becomes too vast and terrible to contemplate, we can return to the immediate question: Who needs help right now?

This focus on helping others isn't just to distract us from our fate. Like the voluntary "sanitary squads" in Oran, it's how we maintain our essential humanity in the face of systemic breakdown. Every act of care, however small, becomes an affirmation of who we choose to be in these times.

The Fellowship of Clear Sight

Perhaps the most powerful parallel between Camus' plague and our planetary hospice lies in the special fellowship that develops among those who choose to face reality while maintaining their capacity for care. In the city of Oran, Rieux, Tarrou, and their companions build a deep solidarity in their clear-eyed service together. Today, the collapse-aware who choose presence over panic, compassion over competition, form a similar fellowship.

I'm not talking about the false fellowship of shared denial or shared despair so common in today's collapse discourse. This is different. It's the authentic connection that becomes possible only when we fully acknowledge our situation while, at the same time, refusing to let that acknowledgment destroy our capacity for care.

Beyond Hope and Despair

"There's no question of heroism in all this," Dr. Rieux insists, eschewing praise while finding reason. "It's a matter of common decency." Here, Camus reflects our own planetary hospice perspective: preserving our humanity without relying on false hope or surrendering to despair.

We're not here to save the world. We know that. Like Rieux, we're here to witness with clarity, to help where we can, and to maintain our essential humanity in the face of forces beyond our control. Our dignity isn't measured by our ability to prevent collapse. It's measured by our capacity to face our fate with grace while continuing to reduce suffering wherever possible.

The Practice of Presence

How then shall we live? Both Camus and the planetary hospice perspective offer us practical wisdom:

1. Stay grounded in the present moment and the immediate need.

2. Maintain human connection and community where possible.

3. Focus on reducing suffering rather than saving or solving.

4. Find dignity in bearing witness with clear eyes and an open heart.

5. Remember that service to others is the antidote to despair.

A Different Kind of Peace

Near the end of The Plague, Rieux reflects that what we learn in times of pandemic and despair is that "there are more things to admire in men than to despise." This is available to us now too. We can choose to maintain our capacity for care even as the systems around us unravel, even as our faith in humanity struggles to find solid ground.

This isn't like the peace of false or naive hope. This is the peace that comes from full acceptance combined with an unwavering commitment to reducing suffering. It's the kind of peace of knowing that even in the midst of collapse, we can choose who we will be. We can choose presence over panic, compassion over competition, and service over despair.

Like Rieux, we are chroniclers as well as caregivers at the end of an era. Our task isn't to rage against this ending or to pretend it isn't happening. It's to bear witness with grace and to ease suffering where we can. In this simplicity lies our dignity, our purpose, and perhaps, our peace.