The Stranger

Albert Camus, French-Algerian journalist, playwright, author, philosopher and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature published this novel - The Stranger - in 1942. The version I read was translated into English by Matthew Ward.

My first and presiding thought both whilst I read it and reflected upon it afterwards, was predominantly - this is totally compelling and uncomfortably weird. Upon further research, I’ve found that most reviews consider the main themes of the book absurdity and existentialism, which probably explains it. Others consider the text a great reflection on modernity and the imposition of capitalism, or alternatively an in depth look into which characteristics are acceptably ‘human’. Every reading of this short book is valuable, and whilst I might be challenged in my (perhaps shortsighted) impression that the tale is more disturbing than symbolic of societal change; it still left me with an uneasy feeling that had little to do with a world devoid of meaning.

I found the style of writing to be very easy and quick to read, including the skilful, abrupt shift between parts one and two. The tale itself centers around Meursault, who lives in Algiers. We know absolutely nothing about Meursault himself until the last section of the book (and even then only minutely), owing to the fact that it is written from his perspective - and he is the ultimate wallflower. In the beginning, starting with his mother’s funeral, he makes startlingly detached observations about the people who surround him. The sentences are short and to the point. This is not the place to come if you enjoy dwelling in vast, richly detailed descriptive lyricism. What is provided however, by way of tangible remnants on the skin, is an overall impression of large blue skies and an intensely hot sun. There is a silent dichotomy in the simplicity of human touch and an unspoken, unreachable sea of densely complex human emotions - the latter of which Meursault is not party to.

In the beginning, I found that Meursault was sort-of-likeable, despite his total lack of feeling in the face of other people’s cruelty and his own personal loss. He is written so matter of fact, it feels like he is numb to the world around him - and you can’t blame him for that. At this point, I assumed he was perhaps severely autistic, or even heavily traumatised. However, as the book unfolds and he agrees to be a witness for his abusive neighbour, I had to admit that his behaviour surpassed that of someone who communicates differently. He seems to have no moral compass, and yet won’t go to a brothel or treat a woman badly.

He pursues a relationship with Marie, who from the beginning seems hopelessly naive and in that, mostly just unrealistic. She asks him if he wants to marry her after less than a month of dating - I mean, really? Then, comes that ill-fated trip to the beach, and a whirlwind sensoral explosion of heat, salt and chaos.

The scorching blade slashed at my eyelashes and stabbed at my stinging eyes. That’s when everything began to reel. The sea carried up a thick, fiery breath. It seemed to me as if the sky split open from one end to the other to rain down fire. My whole being tensed and I squeezed my hand around the revolver.

Is he just pathologically self-centred? Is he a socio-path? The change to longer, more fluid sentences and paragraphs in the second half matched the character development seamlessly, and the latter part of the tale unravels in one long breath. I don’t want to spoil it, but it did catch me off guard in a few places.

I find it unnerving to have reached the end of the book and still not decided how I feel about it. I wouldn’t choose to read it again, but I still don’t know if that’s because it was a masterful piece of psychological absurdism - or because I don’t like feeling uncomfortable. I’ll leave it up to you to decide.