Sisyphus ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. There is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth.

Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain. It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock. If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn. All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill the heart. One finds one's burden. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.