The Stranger

Henri Cartier-Bresson, Albert Camus, 1937

When I first read The Stranger, what I liked most about it was the existential cool of its protagonist Meursault. He cared for no one, not his mother nor his mistress nor God nor even himself, it appeared. A philosophical hero to rebellious kids everywhere.

I read it again the other day. And what struck me this time was not Meursault’s alienation, but his sensuality. Everything he does, from his mother’s funeral to the murder on the beach, arises from it. Even as he is about to be convicted and condemned, he’s thinking how good life feels:

“In the end, all I remember is that while my lawyer went on talking, I could hear through the expanse of chambers and courtrooms an ice cream vendor blowing his tin trumpet out in the street. I was assailed by memories of a life that wasn’t mine anymore, but one in which I’d found the simplest and most lasting joys: the smells of summer, the part of town I loved, a certain evening sky, Marie’s dresses and the way she laughed.”

But I guess what interests me most is how much like Meursault I’ve ended up. It’s one thing to admire an author or a character or a philosophy when you’re too young really to have a clue about it. But it’s another to come upon that character at the other end of things and recognize yourself.