L'Étranger (French: [l‿e.tʁɑ̃.ʒe]) is a 1942 novella by French author Albert Camus. Its theme and outlook are often cited as examples of Camus' philosophy, absurdism coupled with existentialism, though Camus personally rejected the latter label.The title character is Meursault, an indifferent French Algerian described as "a citizen of France domiciled in North Africa, a man of the Mediterranean, an homme du midi yet one who hardly partakes of the traditional Mediterranean culture." He attends his mother's funeral. Weeks later, he kills an Arab man in French Algiers, who was involved in a conflict with one of Meursault's neighbors. Meursault is tried and sentenced to death. The story is divided into two parts, presenting Meursault's first-person narrative view before and after the murder, respectively. In January 1955, Camus wrote this:
I summarized The Stranger a long time ago, with a remark I admit was highly paradoxical: "In our society any man …
L'Étranger (French: [l‿e.tʁɑ̃.ʒe]) is a 1942 novella by French author Albert Camus. Its theme and outlook are often cited as examples of Camus' philosophy, absurdism coupled with existentialism, though Camus personally rejected the latter label.The title character is Meursault, an indifferent French Algerian described as "a citizen of France domiciled in North Africa, a man of the Mediterranean, an homme du midi yet one who hardly partakes of the traditional Mediterranean culture." He attends his mother's funeral. Weeks later, he kills an Arab man in French Algiers, who was involved in a conflict with one of Meursault's neighbors. Meursault is tried and sentenced to death. The story is divided into two parts, presenting Meursault's first-person narrative view before and after the murder, respectively. In January 1955, Camus wrote this:
I summarized The Stranger a long time ago, with a remark I admit was highly paradoxical: "In our society any man who does not weep at his mother's funeral runs the risk of being sentenced to death." I only meant that the hero of my book is condemned because he does not play the game. The Stranger's first edition consisted of only 4,400 copies, which was so few that it could not be a best-seller. Since the novella was published during the Nazi occupation of France, there was a possibility that the Propaganda-Staffel would censor it, but a representative of the Occupation authorities felt it contained nothing damaging to their cause, so it was published without omissions. However, the novel was well received in anti-Nazi circles in addition to Jean-Paul Sartre's article "Explication de L'Étranger".Translated four times into English, and also into numerous other languages, the novel has long been considered a classic of 20th-century literature. Le Monde ranks it as number one on its 100 Books of the Century. The novel was twice adapted as films: Lo Straniero (1967) (Italian) by Luchino Visconti and Yazgı (2001, Fate) by Zeki Demirkubuz (Turkish).
Thank you to the stranger trying to get to Stepney Green from Liverpool st. last year who reminded me I’ve been neglecting this read.
Absurdism'i hikaye şeklinde ele alan bu kitap, hayatın anlamını aramanın gereksizliğine her yönden atıfta bulunuyor.
I read this book my senior year of high school, and it is the book that got me into philosophy. Every time I revisit the book I comprehend its place in Camus's philosophy more and more.
I read this for French practice. It did do its job of being simple in language and short, while being a whole serious "classic" book for adults.
I'm not the type of person for philosophical debates. I know the answers and/or don't care. You shoot someone for no reason -> you go to jail so that you don't do it again. I don't have time for what exactly what might be wrong with this guy or whether he loves his mother.
But maybe I missed the point because I don't even speak French?
An interesting, albeit depressing philosophical, look at the 'life' of a sociopath...
A masterpiece.
I found this to be an enlightening piece of nihilist fiction. I would be remiss if I wrote an extended review of this book. Suffice it to say that nothing really matters. The sooner that one opens their heart to the “benign indifference of the universe,” the sooner one can experience some modicum of happiness in life.
As a misanthrope, this book is terrifying.
111 sider uten et overflødig ord, banal naivitet tilsynelatende, men alt henger sammen, hver handling og hvert ord. Side 91:
"I have never truly been able to regret anything. I was always preoccupied by what was about to happen, either today or tomorrow. "
Som om det å ikke ha et forhold til fortiden gjør oss ute av stand til å tenke rettferdighet.
Wonderful take with a very memorable first paragraph.
I loved Arthur Meursault and loved the ending as well.
Very interesting book indeed. In its style it heavily reminded me at Knut Hamsuns 'Hunger' and works of Kafka. While in 'Hunger' the narrator fights against its destiny and tries to solve his issues, the main person from 'The Stranger' does not really mind to interact with his environment or tries to influence it in the best way possible. Instead, he accepts his fortune and acts in the most practical way possible. I had the feeling, that he is only concerned about the 'now' and not about yesterday or tomorrow. For instance, when his mother died it hadn't any great impact on him at all. At the funeral he wasn't sorry or in pain. It was just a think that needed to happen at some point. He just gets used to it, as he always get to everything. When his neighbour beats his dog, he doesn't care for the dog. …
Very interesting book indeed. In its style it heavily reminded me at Knut Hamsuns 'Hunger' and works of Kafka. While in 'Hunger' the narrator fights against its destiny and tries to solve his issues, the main person from 'The Stranger' does not really mind to interact with his environment or tries to influence it in the best way possible. Instead, he accepts his fortune and acts in the most practical way possible. I had the feeling, that he is only concerned about the 'now' and not about yesterday or tomorrow. For instance, when his mother died it hadn't any great impact on him at all. At the funeral he wasn't sorry or in pain. It was just a think that needed to happen at some point. He just gets used to it, as he always get to everything. When his neighbour beats his dog, he doesn't care for the dog. When his other neighbour wants to take revenge on a woman because of some minor incidents, he does not argue against it, neither does he really agree with him because of a moral basis. Instead he just follows the arguments of his neighbour and then approves that it makes sense on some level.
Another important theme in this book is judgement of us. By which standards we use to judge other people and what they are based on. Killing an arab is not that big of a deal for a white man, if you show some sorrow. Not being sad on your mothers funeral or don't believing in god when facing the death, on the other hand, are socially not accepted.
I think many would call this book a modern classic, and i can understand why.
I must’ve skipped reading this in high school; I have no memory of it at all. Today at 52, I’m writing this because I (still?) find it unmemorable and, should I forget it again, would like to save myself the trouble of rereading it in the future.
I don’t know what others get out of this. I would like to have that conversation one day. Me, I found myself more interested in the pathology than in anything else: what sort of brain damage renders a person so affectless? And how can one so emotionally dead manage to capture, so exquisitely, the precise details that highlight the emptiness of the lives of those around him? It doesn’t work: only a gifted human observer could zero in so perfectly on the details that will so horrify the reader. It's a Catch-22: the psychically empty protagonist, perfect memory notwithstanding, could not have the …
I must’ve skipped reading this in high school; I have no memory of it at all. Today at 52, I’m writing this because I (still?) find it unmemorable and, should I forget it again, would like to save myself the trouble of rereading it in the future.
I don’t know what others get out of this. I would like to have that conversation one day. Me, I found myself more interested in the pathology than in anything else: what sort of brain damage renders a person so affectless? And how can one so emotionally dead manage to capture, so exquisitely, the precise details that highlight the emptiness of the lives of those around him? It doesn’t work: only a gifted human observer could zero in so perfectly on the details that will so horrify the reader. It's a Catch-22: the psychically empty protagonist, perfect memory notwithstanding, could not have the perception to note the details that make the book so powerful.
Did I say human earlier on? Because none of the principal characters here are. They go through motions, but none of them displays even the slightest awareness of other people (or creatures) as real. Everyone and everything are mere props in a pointless tedious farce. They have their roles, and they can mouth the lines, but does anyone feel? The only traces of self-reflection are in the narrator, and those are so clinical as to render them meaningless—that being the point, I’m sure. Maybe an important point in high school. At my age, when I’ve spent the majority of my life shedding shallow vapid meaningless people, I just have no interest in meeting them on paper either.
I’m obviously missing something big. I intend to seek out trusted friends and find out what.
My first dive into the works of Camus and I loved it. Although the first half was a bore to get through, part two picked up the pace and the last few pages were amazing! Would definitely go back to this once I've read the rest of Camus' works.
I can relate. Here’s someone drifting through life. Things happen to him, each as inconsequential as the last. My depression makes me think that way more often than not. In fact, this book may be the best representation of how my depression manifests — not a heavy dragging sadness so much as a robotic indifference. I am as indifferent to the universe as it is to me.
