I'll bet you haven't seen Camus's foot yet. It's all the rage. The aestheticians prize it for the delicacy of its arch, its prim yet playful toes, its generally understated elegance. They wash it thoroughly every day. What a sight that is--Camus's foot, lightly dipped in water, lovingly rubbed, then taken out and placed upright on a towel to dry. It flexes itself slightly, gives itself a good shake, then wiggles its toes and hops around the room.

But these are not the real reasons to see Camus's foot. As pleasing as it is to the eye and to the touch, visit it for its paradoxical wisdom--paradoxical, because this wisdom does not spring from its previous attachment, but from another, poorly understood source. Observe this wisdom from a distance, then approach; bask in it; then--if you dare--caress it. The wisdom of the foot, I mean, not the foot itself, for to touch it physically would be to bypass the wisdom, to indicate to the foot, however subtly, that you prefer its material charms to its essence.