a note from Camus.,

"On the depth of every beauty there’s something inhuman, and here is the hills, the mellowness of the sky, the outline of the trees loses, at the same time, the illusory sense with which we’ve clothed, already further than a paradise lost. Primitive hostility of the world ascends to us, through millenniums. For a second, we cannot understand it anymore, because for centuries we didn’t understand in it the figures and the drawings that we have previously attributed, and because by now we miss the forces to use this artifice. The world is evading, because it returns to itself. The scenes, misstated for habitude, become what they are and they’re pulling away from us. Like it happens some days, when, under a woman’s familiar face, we find out almost a stranger who for months or years ago we loved, probably we end to desire also what suddenly make us so lonely. But time is not over yet. There’s only one thing to notice: this density and this oddness of the world constitute the absurd."