The Stranger

A novel that to me revolves around interpreting the couple of pages describing a murder, moreso than the lack of affect preceding it or following in the second trial half. Having just read The Postman Always Rings Twice made an interesting point of comparison as that book, while filled with much more passion and intensity, also revolves around an apathetic attitude to murder. While Cain ostensibly gives us more base motivations of greed and sex, it's still a book with no deeper answer to why than wanting to, especially as both motivations are stripped away with time. Which is to say, with minimal rewriting, The Stranger could well be a noir novel. What in one tone would be the futility of venal human desires and apathy to life, has been show more turned over and over as a story presenting the absurdity of existence. The distance between the two either moralizing or the expectation of the world making sense. The random capricious nature of humanity is either the gaping wound of society or a fact of life.
Must we imagine Sisyphus happy, or is he groaning in agony the entire time? show less

I read Gide’s The Immoralist and The Stranger in succession while traveling, both in cheap dog-eared mass-market paperback editions (a particular tactile, olfactory experience in itself), and the pairing made me think of literary themes unfolding between the fin de siècle and WWII, Gide’s protagonist Michel guided by Eros (What is available to you in this modern world?), Camus’ Meursault trapped by Fate (This world has Nothing for you, monsieur). Camus’ unadorned prose is an effective antidote to wasted sentiment.

The only thing that interests me now is the problem of circumventing the machine, learning if the inevitable admits a loophole.

I was rather taken aback by The Stranger by Albert Camus. I had heard that this book was a fine example of both existentialism coupled with absurdism and these terms had me convinced the book would be a difficult read and most likely, impossible to understand. Actually I found the very opposite, this very short novel was easy to read and on the surface, easy to understand. It’s only when one starts to dig a little deeper into what the author was writing, that one can see that the author was exploring the meaning of life by raising questions about morality, justice and the responsibilities of the individual.

The book, set in Algiers, is divided into two parts, the first introduces the main character while he attends to the death of his show more mother. This character is one of most apathetic and inaccessible characters that I have come across. We see aspects of his life but the ending of this part happens when this main character commits a totally senseless murder. The second part of the book deals with his incarceration and the eventual trial for the murder. I should mention that I read the novel as translated by Stuart Gilbert, and I wonder if the original work and/or other translations have made this character more sympathetic.

While the murder was shocking and the trial seemed utterly ridiculous, the main character never seemed to advance beyond indifference. Although it was this very indifference that brought about his downfall as it spoke volumes about his lack of remorse and his absence of character. It isn’t until the final paragraphs of the book that he expresses a moral or ethical concern and even then his philosophy seems to be that life is pointless and that everyone has to face their end in their own way. show less

Kunagi ammu sai seda raamatut ka loetud, kuid nüüd oli õige aeg see uuesti kätte võtta. Teos, kus väliselt justkui kõik toimuks ükskõiksuse ja minna laskmise maailmas. Peategelane Meursault võetakse talle üsna vastumeelselt piltlikult riidest lahti ja lõigatakse lahti. Tema emotsioonid ja sisemaailm on lugejale kogu aeg kohal, millega luuakse peategelasest üsna apaatne, ükskõikne ja tundetu tegelane. Camus ise on oma romaani esimesed märkmed kirja pannud 1937. aastal järgmiselt: "Jutustus - mees, kes ei taha ennast õigustada. Ta eelistab arusaama, mis teistel temast tekib. Ta sureb, olles üksi teadlik oma tõest - sellise lohutuse tühisus." See võtab päris hästi kokku selle kummalises ükskõiksuses toimuva show more tegevuse, mis kohati on kui unenägu, kus sündmused toimuvad täiesti absurses järjestuses ilma näilise põhjuseta ja justkui unenäos, on sündmused seal olles arusaadavad, isegi mõistetavad. Nii nagu nii mõnigi painav unenägu, jääb kogu sündmustik mitteteadvusse ootele, et sealt sobival ajal teadvusesse lipsata. show less

No se ustedes pero cuando me encuentro con libros como este, cuya primera edición tiene ya algunas décadas que aparecieron, no puedo evitar preguntarme que diría el resumen de la cubierta, es decir como lo vendieron (Gracias a Internet ahora se que, al parecer, no decían absolutamente nada de él) y la razón es simple: cuando yo me acerque a este libro sabía que era considerado una obra maestra, que se decía que daba una profunda mirada de la naturaleza humana, que era una obra cumbre en el existencialismo , etc. etc. pero en realidad no sabía nada de él, y tampoco me puse a investigarlo.

Una vez que comencé la lectura me impresionó el hecho de que desde la primera oración quedaba explicita la naturaleza de Meursault, la show more proyección de lo que para Camus sería "El hombre del futuro", aquel que ve la vida pasar sin reaccionar, sin estar e incluso sin ser, una total indiferencia a todo lo que sucede y un conformismo a su realidad, misma que desea permanezca estática dado que ya se encuentra acoplado a ella. Más que enfermedad es un total vacío, es la perdida de sensibilidad respecto a todo y a todos, ajeno a mundo al que pertenece.

Es imposible leer este libro y no terminar sintiendo un hueco en tu interior, comparándote a ti mismo con Meursault y buscando en ti y en tus conocidos esa parte que se ha adaptado y conformado con lo que tienen, no por a falta de aspiraciones, sino por a falta de impulso para cambiar su naturaleza y, dependiendo que tan fatalista seas, preguntándote cuanto falta para que la gente este mayoritariamente inmersa en ese olvido de si mismo. show less

I feel like I have to justify this 3 star review.

I understand what Camus is getting at throughout his novella. It's an intro to existentialism staple. Mersault, the impassive and free-willed main character doomed from the beginning because society does not understand his tenets of living, takes us on his journey of coming to terms with the possibilities of his conciousness. A heightened embodiment of the existential mantra, Meursault skirts between the line of a hilariously personified existential body, to a vague, watered-down shadow of it. Perhaps that was Camus' genius: create a character just relatable enough to see the persecution of such a radical philosophy (you may argue it's not, but I'm not here to go into the finer points of show more it) and take us unknowingly into his mind to sympathize.

I think my problem lies entirely with me. I'm not a fan of existentialism. I think there's too much meaning in the world and I revel in the supernatural, the love of others, and the pain therein. I can get a hold of the idea of being alone in the universe, and I think that's a pretty swell way to put it, but that'll never lesson my drive to become as attached as I can to others.

Therein lies the rub: I don't identify with this struggle to the extent Camus' explored. I am quite in the fashion of enjoying the emotions of life and I think that made it so I did not enjoy this as much as I should have. It was a fine read, beyond intelligent and creative with how these ideas were presented, but it just wasn't for me. I think that's the problem with philosophical books, it's a hit or a miss when you're dealing with something so heady as an entire fashion of thought and consciousness. I'll probably pick it up again in a few years if I'm being honest, but for now, it's a tentative 3 for me. Where's my sun beaten breakdown with red between my eyes and a mad dash to the 5 star button so I stop feeling so damned outta the loop about this thing? show less

I really enjoyed this book; it’s another I inherited from my late uncle. I found the strange spell the story weaved in my head very enjoyable, especially before the murder and trial stage of the work. That section filled me with frustration and seemed more than a little reminiscent of the current U.S. justice system. Though the absurdity of the trial, where the narrator’s melancholia proves his guilt more than the facts of the actual murder, was fascinating and thematic. However, I also enjoyed that the narrator seemed to be under the spell of either a mild psychosis or suffering melancholia before his mother’s funeral. After which, he was even more motivated to live privately and ignore his fatal malaise.
It was almost comedic show more during the trial when the background characters, I guess representative of society, found him objectionable as a person because he didn’t behave or do what they thought he should have or display feelings as they wanted. This thread led to utter frustration when it came to their testimonies in court. Though the narrator does have his issues, which play right into the harsh judgment he receives.
[He] was asking me very earnestly if I believed in God. When I said, “No,” he plumped down into his chair indignantly.
That was unthinkable, he said; all men believe in God, even those who reject Him. Of this he was absolutely sure, if ever he came to doubt it, his life would lose all meaning. “Do you wish,” he asked indignantly, “my life to have no meaning?” Really I couldn’t see how my wishes came into it, and I told him as such. [pgs. 85-86]
When he did kill the Arab, he continued to fire into the man’s prostrate (maybe already dead) form, which moved the incident from a clear-cut case of a chance encounter of self-defense into murkier waters. This impulse to overkill may have originated in his unshakable moroseness, though he does seem to lack empathy for others.
In prison, the narrator finds a yellowed piece of newsprint with a story where an estranged son makes it rich and returns home in disguise, so that his sister and mother don’t recognize him.
At dinner that evening he showed them a large sum of money he had on him, and in the course of the night they slaughtered him with a hammer. After taking the money they flung the body into the river. Next morning his wife came and, without thinking, betrayed the guest’s identity. His mother hanged herself. His sister threw herself into a well. […] Anyhow, to my mind, the man was asking for trouble; one shouldn’t play fool tricks of that sort. [pg.100]
After reading that little routine, I definitely did not jump to the narrator’s conclusion of blaming the victim, though his ploy at surprise was decidedly stupid.
The first third of the book is enjoyable as it tells the awkward tale of the apathetic narrator simply playing the part he believes he should, though not appearing so to the observers and fellow mourners around him. The second third weaves a sleepy, dreamlike spell as the narrator simply floats through his life, interacting with his friends, including an aged eccentric and a criminal. Here, the murder ends this section of the book. The last third starts with the frustration of character flogging in court, exacerbated by the case of a son killing his father, which is to take place after the narrator’s murder trial. This section concludes with a long stay behind bars and a death sentence. In this last third, I think the author interrogates his themes more than in the other two, though the setup in each creates a cohesive whole out of the three.
I think the main theme found in this work is that of Man vs. Society, where society desires to dictate how the protagonist feels and conducts himself in expressing those feelings at the right time. Since his actions do not fit into a prescribed norm, he is generally guilty, guilty of not letting society dictate the currents of his soul, not just of violating its legality. Imho anyway.
I could see the chaplain was an old hand at it, as his gaze never faltered. And his voice was quite steady when he said: “Have you no hope at all? Do you really think that when you die you die outright, and nothing remains?”
I said: “Yes.”
He dropped his eyes and sat down again. He was truly sorry for me, he said. It must make life unbearable for a man, to think as I did. [pg.147]
The strange emotional distance that comes from the narrator is a definite feature of this work. As the terms of the murder that began as self-defense, this indifference and failure to enter fully into emotion muddies the water to the point that it conceals a significant portion of the narrator himself from the reader, and in a few scenes, especially in prison, also from himself. He never quite reaches a crescendo of emotion, even when the situation seems to require it; he gets close while in prison in one or two scenes, but he can’t quite breach that barrier. It is not until the end when "something seemed to break inside me, and I started yelling at the top of my voice." [pg.151] He unloads on the prison chaplain before he’s dragged away and fatalistically accepts his sentence. The barrier cracked but just as quickly reasserted itself, putting the narrator at a distance from his impending death just as it did from his life.
I would recommend this one, especially if you’re looking for classic literature that is an easy and relatively short read.
Favorite Quote:
He said he felt convinced my appeal would succeed, but I was saddled with a load of guilt, of which I must get rid. In his view man’s justice a vain thing; only God’s justice mattered. I pointed out that the former had condemned me. Yes, he agreed, but it hadn’t absolved me from my sin. I told him that I wasn’t conscious of any “sin”; all I knew was that I’d been guilty of a criminal offense. Well, I was paying the penalty of that offense, and no one had the right to expect anything more of me. [pg.148] show less