vanity

Vanity is the central, driving force of Jean-Baptiste Clamence's personality and the key to his entire narrative. It is the engine of his former success as a Parisian lawyer, the hidden motive behind his public acts of charity and courtesy, and the wound that, once exposed, shatters his self-image and compels him to construct the elaborate role of the judge-penitent. Clamence's vanity is not a simple flaw but a total system of self-regard that governs his relationships, his profession, and his very perception of the world, ultimately leading him to a state of permanent, self-conscious performance.

The Architecture of Vanity

Clamence's vanity is the foundation of his entire being, the "refrain of my whole life, which could be heard in everything I said." He admits that he was "always bursting with vanity" and that he could never talk without boasting, even when employing a "shattering discretion" that was itself a form of self-display. This vanity was not merely a desire for praise but a profound conviction of his own superiority. He considered himself more intelligent, more sensitive, more skillful than everyone else—a better lover, a crack shot, an incomparable driver. He admitted only superiorities in himself, and this explained his good will and serenity, for when he was concerned with others, he was so "out of pure condescension, in utter freedom, and all the credit went to me: my self-esteem would go up a degree." This self-regard was so total that it structured his very physical existence. He felt comfortable only in lofty places, preferring the bus to the subway, open carriages to taxis, and terraces to closed-in rooms. He was the man of the mesas, the eternal pacer of the top deck, and he felt that living aloft was "the only way of being seen and hailed by the largest number." His profession as a lawyer satisfied this vocation for summits, setting him above the judge whom he judged in turn and above the defendant whom he forced to gratitude, allowing him to live with impunity, "bathed in a light as of Eden."

The Performance of Virtue

Clamence's vanity expressed itself most vividly in a relentless performance of virtue. He loved to help blind people cross streets, rushing forward to snatch them from any solicitude but his own. He enjoyed giving directions, lending a hand to heavy pushcarts, pushing a stranded car, and giving alms. He admits that he used to exult at the sight of a beggar. His famous courtesy was a source of great delight; giving up his seat in the bus or subway, picking up an object an old lady had dropped, or forfeiting his taxi to someone in a greater hurry made it a "red-letter day." He even rejoiced when transport strikes gave him a chance to load his fellow citizens into his car. These acts were not spontaneous kindness but carefully staged performances. He reveals the true nature of this theater when he describes tipping his hat to a blind man he had just helped across the street. The gesture was not for the blind man, who could not see it, but for the public. "After playing my part, I would take the bow." His vanity demanded an audience, and every charitable act was a scene in which he could admire his own excellence.

The Shattering of the Mirror

The edifice of Clamence's vanity was cracked by a single, inexplicable event: a laugh he heard on the Pont des Arts. Standing on the bridge, feeling a vast sense of power and completion, he heard a laugh burst out behind him. There was no one there. This laugh, which he describes as "good, hearty, almost friendly," re-established the proper proportions and left him dazed. It was the first sound of judgment from a world he had believed was his admiring audience. This moment triggered a slow, painful collapse. He began to feel vulnerable and open to public accusation. He realized that his fellows were not the respectful public he had known but a row of judges, and that every one he encountered seemed to be looking at him with a hidden smile. The whole universe began to laugh at him. The vanity that had once been his armor became his most vulnerable point. He could not endure the thought that he was being judged, and his response was a desperate attempt to regain control. He dreamed of jostling the blind on the street, of shouting "Lousy proletarian" under scaffoldings, of slapping infants in the subway. He began to write an "Ode to the Police" and an "Apotheosis of the Guillotine." These were the convulsions of a vanity that could no longer sustain its own image.

The Judge-Penitent as a Solution

Clamence's ultimate solution to the crisis of his vanity is the invention of the judge-penitent. This role allows him to transform his greatest weakness into a new form of power. He explains that the essential thing is to be able to permit oneself everything, even if one has to profess vociferously one's own infamy. The confession of his crimes allows him to begin again lighter in heart and to taste a double enjoyment: first of his nature and secondly of a charming repentance. The method is a masterpiece of inverted vanity. He accuses himself up and down, constructing a portrait that is the image of all and of no one, a mask. Then, imperceptibly, he passes from the "I" to the "we." When he says, "This is what we are," the trick is played. "The more I accuse myself, the more I have a right to judge you." This is vanity perfected: he dominates at last, but forever. He has found a height to which he is the only one to climb and from which he can judge everybody. He sits enthroned among his bad angels at the summit of the Dutch heaven, watching the multitude of the Last Judgment ascend toward him, and he feels at last that he is being adored. The vanity that was once wounded by a laugh has rebuilt itself into a throne, and Clamence, the empty prophet for shabby times, has become the judge of all humanity.