Monday. I went to bed very late the night before. I woke up very early. We are ascending the port of New York. A breathtaking sight despite the haze or perhaps because of it. Here lies order, authority, economic power. The heart trembles in front of such marvelous inhumanity. I finally disembark at 11 in the morning after multiple procedures that concern only me, as I am the only one among all the passengers who is treated as a suspect. The immigration officer eventually apologizes for delaying me so long. I had to, but I can't explain the reason to you.

Late at night, aboard the sleeping ship, I gaze into the darkness. The curious moon of the southern hemisphere, flattened at the top, illuminates the waters toward the South. We imagine those thousands of kilometers, those lonelinesses where the deep and shining waters resemble an oily land. At least that would be the peace.

Alberto Camus traveled to the USA from March to May 1946 and then to South America from June to August 1949. The style in the two diaries varies significantly. In North America, he goes as a journalist who discovers, with a gaze sometimes filled with wonder and other times critical, the excess of the New World. However, he does not forget his priorities at the time and, above all, The Plague.

In South America, he travels as an official guest, like a celebrity, while progressively suspecting a new tuberculosis flare-up. His journey parallels the course of his illness, which he rediscovers...