The Stranger

Last night I plunked myself down in my reading chair—a large overstuffed chair where I can throw my legs over one poofy arm and lean against the other poofy arm—and read Albert Camus’s The Stranger in about two hours. It has been years since I’ve read the book and I thought it was time to read it again. Since the lad just finished reading it for his English Lit class, the book was sitting there waiting to be picked up.

The translation I read was by Matthew Ward, a vast improvement over previous translations. It gets back to Camus’s simple language without added expository phrases. Camus wrote the first half of the book in short, simple phrases. Nothing added. The previous translations that added descriptive phrases (for clarity) obviously subtracted meaning from what Camus was trying to say. I love this translation.

I’m not much of a fan of existential thought and the book’s main character, Meursault, is existentialism personified. He seems to be a detached character with little emotion. Life doesn’t matter and we all die in the end. The details are the only things that change one life from another, but the details don’t matter. In the end, we’re dead. What we see and do is what we see and do. We get up, we eat, we work, we go places, we sleep. It has no meaning, it is arbitrary. One second can change everything, and yet nothing is changed.

Meursault often seems to come across as a dead man inside. But, in this translation, the sparsity of phrasing accentuates his engagement with his life. We aren’t told anything superfluous. Meursault’s observations, thoughts, and behavior speak for themselves.

He is interested in the people around him, yet with a detached perspective. He makes no judgments, yet is concerned with judgments other people make of him. Until he reminds himself, again, that it doesn’t matter. He is likable, even warm and kind. He is honest and naive in his thinking and behavior. He is genuinely surprised by the leaps in logic that people make, based on moral codes. He is even wounded by and uncomprehending of the labels people place on him. The absurdity of the unrelated ties in the leaps of logic baffle him completely. And, finally, make him angry.

Meursault is a sympathetic character. And that’s a remarkable feat to accomplish for a murderer who doesn’t see what he did as wrong. He is without remorse, yet he’s innocent. And after reading the book again, it’ll be days before I stop thinking about it. Meursault makes me angry because he is so detached from life and relationships. He seems incapable of going deeper. And sees no reason for doing so. Until prison forces him to reflect.

It’s a book that I don’t want to like, but I love it. And I understand and like Meursault. Camus’s genius is contained in the 123 pages of this book. If you haven’t read it, do. It’ll work on you for days after you’ve put it down.