Albert Camus on the Guillotine: Arguments Against the Death Penalty
- David Lapadat
- Sep 8
- 6 min read
Have you ever wondered how a device designed for mercy became synonymous with terror?
That’s the story of the guillotine, and it starts with a man named Joseph Guillotin.
In the late 18th century, amid the swirling chaos of the French Revolution, Guillotin wasn’t a bloodthirsty revolutionary.
He was a physician, a reformer at heart, pushing for equality in an unexpected arena: execution.
Before him, death sentences in France were a grim lottery.
Nobles might get a swift beheading by sword, while commoners endured drawn-out tortures like breaking on the wheel or hanging that could go horribly wrong.
Guillotin, appalled by this inequality, lobbied in the National Assembly for the adoption of a mechanical decapitation device – one he did not invent himself, as the design was crafted by Antoine Louis with builder Tobias Schmidt, inspired by earlier machines like the Scottish Maiden – that would deliver instant, painless death to all, regardless of status.
On October 10, 1789, he stood before the National Assembly and advocated for this “humane” method.
He believed it would democratize capital punishment, making it fairer.
Ironically, Guillotin opposed the death penalty altogether.
He hoped that by stripping away the spectacle of suffering, society might eventually see the barbarity of state-sanctioned killing and abolish it.
But history twisted his intentions.
The guillotine, named after him against his wishes, became the Revolution’s emblem, claiming thousands of lives during the Reign of Terror.
Guillotin lived to regret it, dying naturally in 1814, haunted by the machine that bore his name.
As I reflect on this, it strikes me personally – how often do good intentions pave roads to darker places?
And speaking of darkness, this brings us to a 20th-century thinker who wielded the guillotine not as a tool, but as a metaphor for everything wrong with the death penalty.
But before we dive into his words, let’s consider the partnership that amplified his voice…
Camus and Koestler: Allies in the Fight Against Capital Punishment
Picture two intellectuals, separated by borders but united by outrage.
Albert Camus, the Algerian-born French philosopher known for his existential musings, and Arthur Koestler, the Hungarian-British writer with a flair for political critique, crossed paths in their disdain for the death penalty.
In 1957, they collaborated on a seminal work titled Réflexions sur la peine capitale (Reflections on Capital Punishment).
This book combined Koestler’s essay “Reflections on Hanging,” drawing from his observations of British executions, with Camus’ “Reflections on the Guillotine,” a searing indictment rooted in French history.
Their joint effort wasn’t just academic; it was a call to action, published amid post-war debates on human rights.
Koestler, having survived imprisonment under Franco and witnessed the absurdities of totalitarianism, argued that hanging was a relic of barbarism that failed to deter crime.
Camus, influenced by his own brushes with absurdity – think The Stranger – saw the guillotine as a symbol of state’s premeditated murder.
Together, they exposed how capital punishment “besmirches our society,” as Camus put it, urging abolition.
Reading their work today, I feel a quiet urgency; it’s as if they’re whispering across decades, “Has nothing changed?”
This collaboration set the stage for Camus’ essay, a piece that doesn’t just argue – it haunts.
But what exactly did Camus say that still echoes in death penalty debates?
Hold that thought; we’ll unpack it next, including a childhood story that Camus carried like a scar…
Into the Heart of Camus’ Essay: “Reflections on the Guillotine”
Camus doesn’t pull punches.
In “Reflections on the Guillotine,” published as part of his 1960 collection Resistance, Rebellion, and Death, Camus dissects capital punishment with the precision of a surgeon – or perhaps an executioner.
He begins not with abstract philosophy, but with raw humanity.
Drawing on personal anecdotes, historical data, and existential insights, he builds a case against the death penalty that’s as emotional as it is logical.
Camus argues that the state, by claiming the right to kill, descends into the same moral abyss as the criminal.
He cites statistics showing executions don’t reduce crime rates, questions the infallibility of justice, and paints vivid pictures of the guillotine’s brutality.
But at its core, the essay is a meditation on absurdity: How can a society that values life sanction its deliberate end?
As someone who’s grappled with Camus’ ideas in quiet moments, I find his voice disarmingly direct – no lofty jargon, just truths that linger.
He outlines three key principles why the death penalty is fundamentally wrong, each building on the last.
Let’s explore them one by one, starting with the myth that’s kept executions alive for centuries…
Principle One: The Death Penalty Fails as a Deterrent
Does fear of the blade really stop the hand that wields the knife?
Camus’ first principle strikes at the heart of pro-death penalty arguments: deterrence.
He contends that capital punishment doesn’t prevent crime any more effectively than life imprisonment.
Drawing on historical evidence, Camus notes that pickpockets operated brazenly at public executions in 19th-century England – thieves stealing amid the gallows’ shadow.
He cites Koestler’s data from Britain, where abolition of hanging for certain crimes didn’t spike offenses.
In France, post-Revolution guillotinings correlated with rising violence, not less.
Camus argues that most murders are crimes of passion, impulsive acts untouched by rational fear of consequences.
“The fear of death is indeed the supreme penalty,” he writes, but it’s abstract until the moment arrives – too distant to deter.
Personally, this resonates; I’ve seen how people rationalize risks in everyday life, let alone in heated moments.
But Camus doesn’t stop at stats.
He weaves in stories, like the one of his father – a tale I’ll circle back to soon – showing how executions can harden hearts rather than soften them.
If not deterrence, then what justifies it?
Revenge, perhaps?
That leads us to the next principle, where irreversibility enters the fray…
Principle Two: Irrevocability in a Fallible System
Once the head falls, there’s no undoing the cut.
Camus’ second principle hinges on the death penalty’s finality: it’s irrevocable, and human justice errs too often to wield such power.
He points to miscarriages of justice, where innocents have been executed only to be exonerated posthumously.
In France, he references cases like that of Lesurques, wrongly guillotined in 1796 for a mail coach robbery, his innocence proven years later.
Camus argues that while imprisonment allows for appeals and rectifications, death slams the door shut.
“Society takes the word ‘justice’ too much for granted,” he observes, highlighting how biases, flawed evidence, and political pressures taint verdicts.
To illustrate, he draws from execution mishaps, like botched hangings Koestler described, where the condemned suffered prolonged agony – a far cry from “humane” intent.
But consider the priest’s story in Camus’ narrative:
During an execution, a chaplain insists on consoling a terrified prisoner, who rejects him, screaming in despair. This moment, drawn from historical accounts, underscores the system’s cold machinery grinding down human frailty.
And remember that childhood anecdote? It’s coming – a father’s horror that mirrors this irrevocability.
As I ponder this, a chill runs through me; how many “guilty” verdicts hide doubts?
Yet even if justice were perfect, Camus says, the penalty’s cruelty remains – which brings us to his final stand…
Principle Three: The Debasement of Society and Humanity
Execution doesn’t just kill the condemned; it scars the living.
In his third principle, Camus asserts that the death penalty degrades everyone involved – executioners, witnesses, and society at large.
It’s a premeditated ritual of violence that “besmirches our society,” turning citizens into complicit spectators.
He describes the guillotine’s operation in unflinching detail: the blade’s descent, the basket catching the head, the assistants’ grim tasks.
One cited example is the story of the executioner’s assistant, who, in a botched decapitation, had to yank the half-severed head free – a visceral image from French penal history that Camus uses to expose the barbarity hidden behind clinical terms.
Then there’s the priest again, forcing spiritual solace on a man facing oblivion, symbolizing society’s hypocritical piety amid cruelty.
But the loop closes here with that personal story I mentioned:
Camus recounts his mother’s tale of his father, a working-class man who attended a guillotine execution in Algiers, expecting righteous satisfaction for a child’s murderer.
Instead, he returned home vomiting, collapsing in revulsion, never to speak of it again.
This anecdote, from Camus’ own life, illustrates how executions brutalize observers, eroding empathy.
In my view, it’s this human cost that hits hardest – society, in seeking “justice,” becomes the monster it condemns.
Camus ties it to existential absurdity: Life’s meaninglessness amplified by state murder.
Conclusion: A Timeless Echo of Mercy
We’ve journeyed from Guillotin’s hopeful invention to Camus’ damning critique, through principles that expose the death penalty’s flaws.
Yet, at its essence, Camus’ argument reduces to a profound humility:
Who among us is flawless enough to judge another’s life forfeit?
It echoes an ancient admonition – “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
In a world still debating capital punishment, Camus urges us to err on the side of life, lest we all bear the stain.
As I close this review, I wonder: Will we listen?
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