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David Enoch recently defended the idea that there are valid inferences of the form ‘it would be good if p, therefore, p’. I argue that Enoch's proposal allows us to infer the absurd conclusion that ours is the best of all possible worlds.

A familiar and still influential image of Kierkegaard presents him as an irrationalist; someone who supposes that transitions between evaluative frameworks such as the aesthetic, the ethical, and the religious can only be made by blind “leaps of faith,” acts of will for which no reasons can be given. More recent interpretations of Kierkegaard as a narrative theorist have, I think, successfully challenged this understanding of Kierkegaard’s view of the ethical, but they might seem to leave the irrationalist interpretation of his view of religious faith – particularly as presented in Fear and Trembling – untouched. In this chapter I will argue that faith in Fear and Trembling does have a narrative intelligibility of a kind that is at least partially continuous with that of the ethical life. But I will need to start with a brief explanation of what I mean by narrative intelligibility in the ethical context. I Alasdair MacIntyre, who has given one of the more sophisticated versions of the irrationalist reading of Kierkegaard, argues that, according to Kierkegaard, transitions between evaluative frameworks must occur as “criterionless choices,” since they are choices of what will count as being reasons or criteria for actions or choices, and so cannot themselves be governed by (rational) criteria. In the last two or three decades, many Kierkegaard scholars have reacted against such interpretations, arguing in particular that Kierkegaard presents the transition from the aesthetic to the ethical in Either/Or as a rational one. And some of us have argued that, ironically, the account that Kierkegaard has Judge William in Either/Or give of the ethical life and its rationality is very similar to the account MacIntyre himself gives in his After Virtue .

Contemporaries, precursors and followers Sartre's article on The Stranger helped to make Camus famous, and also to impose a reading of the novel which has remained the dominant reading. In this he was flanked by Blanchot and Barthes, who contributed towards establishing The Stranger as the novel of the absurd. Sartre, whose essay was first published in Les Cahiers du Sud in February 1943, stated, as clearly as censorship would allow, the book's meaning to Occupation readers: ‘Amidst the literary production of the time this novel was itself a stranger’ (J.-P. Sartre, ‘Explication de L'Etranger’, Situations , vol. 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1947), p. 99). Whereas the official culture of Vichy castigated the Third Republic, wept over France's shame and encouraged conformity to the new order, The Stranger offered a discourse that stood outside the control of others. The absurd was a refutation of the fictions offered by the Vichy government. Like Sartre, Blanchot understood that the novel's first quality was a refusal and that Meursault's indifference was a critical, negative force. ‘We enter the characters’ souls while ignoring the nature of their feelings and thoughts', writes Blanchot, ‘this book undermines the concept of subject’ (Maurice Blanchot, Faux Pas (Paris: Gallimard, 1943), p. 249). Blanchot does not approach the work as joyously as Sartre. He detects in it something of his own anguish – an anguish that is, in his view, too easily banished in The Myth .

To what extent does existentialism constitute itself as a literary rather than a primarily philosophical phenomenon? Or, to put a slightly different but related question: what form does existentialism take when it is viewed as literature rather than as philosophy? Such questions arise as a fairly direct consequence of the fact that a number of key existentialist works (or works that have generally been regarded as such) have indeed been works of literature - JeanPaul Sartre's Nausea (La Nausee, 1938) and Albert Camus's The Outsider (L'Etranger, 1939) being two excellent examples - while some of the key figures within or close to the existentialist tradition have been literary rather than philosophical - arguably this is true of Camus, and certainly of Beckett. Rather than simply provide an exploration of existentialism in literature, or a survey of those literary works that figure within existentialism, this essay will also examine the idea of existentialism as literature, sketching a picture of existentialism as it emerges in literary rather than solely philosophical terms. Although it is sometimes argued that existentialism stands in a special relationship to literature - that it is an especially "literary" mode of philosophizing- David E. Cooper argues that over-reliance on existentialist fiction has actually been a source of misconceptions about existentialism. Refusing to include Camus among the existentialists, or to allow that he might be a philosopher, Cooper claims that "existentialism ... is not a mood or a vocabulary, but a relatively systematic philosophy." I am less persuaded than Cooper by the idea of existentialism as a "systematic philosophy" (if there is anything that is systematic in existentialism, then it is, it seems to me, just phenomenology), and much more inclined to view existentialist literature as providing an important means of access to existentialist thinking or, at least, to what has to be viewed as a form of such thinking. While one approach to existentialism is through the philosophical works that make it up, another approach is surely through the literary works that represent a parallel, and sometimes alternative, mode of articulation and expression.

Aesthetic and political struggles shaped fiction writing in Ireland in the twentieth century. Twin but warring needs impelled the contestation. Writers sought to institute a discrete and purpose-built tradition that could mirror and meditate divisions and ideological conflicts endemic in a colonial society and that could treat the traumatic effects of a postcolonial legacy. Yet writers also chafed against such imperatives and resolutely endeavored to escape them. Whereas the English novel was seen as determined by an unbroken lineage rooted in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century antecedents and nurtured by a stable and flourishing bourgeois society, the Irish novel in lacking such accouterments was found wanting. In particular, Irish political ruptures with England in the nineteenth century meant that the conventions of realism did not readily establish themselves. They seemed ill-suited to novelists' aims to render dissension and social upheaval. Instead, absurdist fables, political allegories, Gothic romances, metafictions, peasant tales, and versions of what R. F. Foster has dubbed “the Irish story” took the place of realism. Sean O'Faolain provocatively claims in his autobiography that “there is no such genre as the Irish Novel.” In making this polemical assertion, he does not dispute the achievement of individual Irish authors but laments the absence of a continuous, overarching literary tradition. Colm Toibin launches a similarly devastating broadside in his account of the vicissitudes of the novel in Ireland. Toibin holds that fiction is preempted by the already fabulous nature of Irish history, with its dependence on tragic denouements and heroic narratives; and that conflict-laden political realities in the country have loaned themselves more readily to fragmented stories than to the cohesive vision demanded of the novelist.

T Xhe eponymous protagonist of Samuel Beck? ett's early novel Murphy spends most of his time in search of an escape from the burden of mundane consciousness?from what the novel calls his "unredeemed split self." Murphy survives by cultivating a variety of ataraxy: in Beckett's words, a "self-immersed indifference to the contingencies of the contingent world which he had chosen for himself as the only felicity." It is not at all inappropriate to gloss such a mental life in the vocabulary of Greek philosophy. The novel itself invites us to do so. We learn, for one thing, how Murphy had studied with the eccentrically Pythagorean Neary, whose attempt to inculcate an "attunement" and blending of "the opposites in Murphy's heart" had been fruitless. An entire chapter, moreover, is devoted to the depiction of Murphy's mind as both markedly tripartite and as a kind of private Platonic Cave, divided into zones of light, half light, and darkness. In the light, into which he rarely finds his way, Murphy has access to the "forms" of a fantasized reordering of his actual existence. In the half-light, he enjoys a dream-like, peaceful contemplation. But in the

In 1956 Harold Pinter trod the boards in Bournemouth and Torquay in over thirty thrillers and comedies, the standard repertory company staple of the pre- and post-war periods, while J. B. Priestley, Noel Coward and Terence Rattigan dominated the West End theatre with comforting spiritualism, stylish comedy of manners and sentimentalised social problem play, all designed to reassure the self-applauding middle-class patrons, through laughter or tears. Alternatively, by the early 1950s, the plays of Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams with their contrasting realistic modes of incidental expressionism ( Death of a Salesman , 1949) and passionate naturalism (A Streetcar Named Desire , 1947) were quite free from the all-constrictive self-censorship of the British class system dominated by virtual terror of the vulgar and lower class. Along with changing post-war social conditions the seeming freedom signalled by the Americans provided an impetus for the rise of the Angry Young Men (pre-eminently John Osborne, Arnold Wesker and John Arden) at the Royal Court Theatre, from the annus mirabilis of 1956. Of equal importance, but less sensational in immediate impact was the translation of French absurdism, most famously Samuel Beckett and Eugcne Ionesco, to London productions at the Arts Theatre (respectively, Waiting for Godot , 1955; The New Tenant , 1956).

Albert Camus is one of the iconic figures of twentieth-century French literature, one of France's most widely read modern literary authors and one of the youngest winners of the Nobel Prize for Literature. As the author of L'Etranger and the architect of the notion of 'the Absurd' in the 1940s, he shot to prominence in France and beyond. His work nevertheless attracted hostility as well as acclaim and he was increasingly drawn into bitter political controversies, especially the issue of France's place and role in the country of his birth, Algeria. Most recently, postcolonial studies have identified in his writings a set of preoccupations ripe for revisitation. Situating Camus in his cultural and historical context, this 2007 Companion explores his best-selling novels, his ambiguous engagement with philosophy, his theatre, his increasingly high-profile work as a journalist and his reflection on ethical and political questions that continue to concern readers today.

Act 3 scene 6 of Caligula stages a key encounter between Caligula and Cherea, Camus's murderous protagonist and one of his eventual assassins. Here, the two men articulate the ethical impasse at the heart of the philosophy of the Absurd. Caligula suggests that Cherea must believe in 'quelque idee superieure' ( TRN , 78) ('some higher principle' ( COP , 83)); Cherea does not entirely accept this, but neither does he entirely deny it: Cherea: Je crois qu'il y a des actions qui sont plus belles que d'autres. Caligula: Je crois que toutes sont equivalentes.” ( TRN , 78-9) Cherea: I believe some actions are - shall I say? - more praiseworthy than others. Caligula: I believe that all are on an equal footing.” ( COP , 83) Cherea uses an aesthetic term rather than a moral one to characterise his position: some actions are 'plus belles' (literally 'more beautiful') than others, not inherently better or more just. Caligula's retort that all actions are equivalent does not necessarily contradict Cherea's argument, since neither man asserts the existence of a higher value which would make it possible to distinguish between one action and another in strictly ethical terms. It is also significant here that neither man seriously tries to persuade the other to change his views. Each states what he believes , but makes no attempt to offer principles, reasons or explanations which would demonstrate the validity of his own opinion. We are presented here with the confrontation of two positions which are coherent within their own terms, but which are utterly incompatible. One man believes that some actions are preferable to others, whilst the other insists that no action has inherent value above any other.

The Spanish stage of the early post-Civil-War period reflected the ideological split that continued after Franco’s victory in 1939. When Antonio Buero Vallejo (1916–2000), a former political prisoner who fought on the losing side in the Civil War, had his tragedy, Historia de una escalera (“Story of a Stairway”) premiered in 1949, Spain found a new voice and a new vehicle for revealing a reality absent from a stage dominated by rightist plays glorifying National Catholicism and the imperial dream, on the one hand, and by light comedies, on the other. While the first plays represented an “official” or Francoist culture and the second, a culture of “evasion,” Buero’s play represented a dissident culture that brought to the stage the harsh reality of the early postwar period. The “official” theatre – heroic pieces by playwrights such as Jose Maria Peman (1897–1981) and Juan Ignacio Luca de Tena (1897–1975) – reflected the Franco regime’s vision of itself as heir to what it considered Spain’s past glories and national virtues as they idealized a dubious past while ignoring real problems of their own present. While such plays, of little lasting value, continued the Spanish Romantic tradition, the serious comedies of Miguel Mihura (1905–1977), Edgar Neville (1899–1967), Jose Lopez Rubio (1903–1996), and Victor Ruiz Iriarte (1912–1982) participated in international currents of their time. Mihura’s Tres sombreros de copa (“Three Top Hats,” 1952) has been recognized as a precursor of the Theatre of the Absurd. Lopez Rubio’s and Ruiz Iriarte’s plays are also characterized by experimentation with the absurd as well as by metatheatre (theatre about theatre) and various forms of theatricalist staging.

Richard Wagner is still with us and it is surprising that he is. For some decades after his death, the theatre developed along lines suggested by his theatrical and dramatic practice and theory, but as the forms and functions of theatre changed in the early decades of the twentieth century, the aesthetic legitimacy of his work was challenged. Not only did the romantic–realistic style in which the music-dramas were conceived become archaic, but the heroic atmosphere and ethos of his work grew increasingly suspect. The notion of heroism as a formative agent in public life, always a questionable assumption, has been more discredited in the latter half of the twentieth century than perhaps at any other time in history. The aphorism of Brecht's Galileo, “Unhappy the land where heroes are needed,” must surely stand as one of our defining mottoes since World War II. But Wagner, for all his championing of the hero, did not disappear. A few years after the defeat of Germany, the music-dramas were reinstated in the international and German operatic repertoire, and although subsequent generations have continued to contest their centrality to German culture, they are as popular as they have ever been. Even smaller European opera-houses now regularly stage the Ring and at the Bayreuth Festival applications for tickets, we are told, outweigh availability by a factor of about eight to one. Wagner, it appears, will be with us for several decades to come, probably longer.

As has been noted previously, Fear and Trembling appeared together with Repetition and Three Edifying Discourses on October 16, 1843. It contains some of Kierkegaard's best-known concepts, such as the knight of faith, the paradox, the leap, and the absurd. Here Kierkegaard under the pseudonym, Johannes de silentio, gives his rich analysis of the Abraham and Isaac story to illustrate these and other concepts. In a series of three “Problemata,” he discusses the conundrums raised in the story by Abraham's reaction to the divine command to sacrifice his only son. The first “Problema” treats what is referred to as “the teleological suspension of the ethical.” Here the claim is set forth that the usual ethical duties and obligations can be “suspended” by a divine command. In the second “Problema,” Johannes de silentio argues that there is an absolute duty towards God which renders one's other duties finite and relative. Finally, in the third “Problema,” the problem of communication is discussed; given the private nature of the divine command, it was, according to Johannes de silentio, impossible for Abraham to explain his actions to others. Hegel's role in this text is significant. Although Kierkegaard usually has his pseudonyms employ expressions such as “a Hegelian,” or “recent philosophy,” Johannes de silentio uncharacteristically refers to Hegel directly in several passages. His anti-Hegel polemics were noted by two anonymous contemporary reviewers of Fear and Trembling .