The Stranger
by Albert Camus
The content of this one was largely similar to Catcher in the Rye, although the style was not nearly as painful for me, the reader, to read. The main character Meursault (the stranger) was generally disconnected within society and could not really relate to those around him. He was not entirely connected with his girlfriend, who asked him whether or not he loved her, he responded that he didn’t, but it didn’t really matter anyway. He said he would marry her if it was what she wanted, though. He didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral, and couldn’t understand why, nor why he should.
The book was split into two parts. The first one ended with Meursault killing another man, an Arab armed with a knife, and the second started with Meursault in prison awaiting his trial.
The plot ends as Meursault engages in an argument with a priest who comes to chat about his sins and accepting god before Meursault receives his death penalty by guillotine. Madness and enlightenment is the resulting end. At least that’s what I got out of it. This was another pretty short book by volume, and I enjoyed a bottle of wine while I read.
What was more strange than the ending of the book, was the result of my finishing the book. After reading for a good part of the afternoon into the evening, during my slumber I had a dream that my good friend Eddie was to be put to death by guillotine, which happened, and I caught his head after it was severed off. Then, in my parents lawn shed, I was torn up about how to break the news to his family, who I was sure would blame me somehow for involving Eddie in something that resulted in his beheading. But I was also trying to get in touch with my brother, who had stolen my parents Jeep, and was joy-riding with a friend in downtown Philly. The on-star lady told me that he was drunk, and there was nothing she could do to help.
So, what’s the moral of the story, you ask?
If you read The Stranger, and drink a bottle of wine, you will have some fucked up dreams.
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This Meursault sounds a lot like Turd Ferguson – disconnected, can’t relate, wears a wallet chain, makes boxes.
Man, my head hurts.
I had a dream recently that I played ice hockey. I wasn’t very good at that either.
I admire your desire to read the classics. What were you doing in high school and college when the rest of us were reading this stuff? Oh well, it really doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll marry you if that’s what you want.