Apathy reigns supreme as this man's principal approach to interacting with the world. When his mother passes away and he attends her funeral, he experiences nothing but weariness, the sweltering heat, and a profound drowsiness. Hunger gnaws at him, and so he consumes food. Sexual arousal leads him to engage in an act with a girl. Armed with a gun, and irritated by the scorching sun, he fires five shots at a man, ending his life. That concludes the initial part of the book.

In the subsequent part of the narrative, the trial commences. This individual, although human in appearance, lacks the capacity to feel emotions or empathy for others. He is forthright about this fact. Regrettably, his lawyer does not value his honesty, as it undermines his case. At the very least, he has not yet mastered the art of concealing his inhumanity. He presents no false facade. Society must accept him for who he is. In a cold and calculated decision, society determines that he must be put to death. Isn't this act just as inhumane as what the man himself has committed? The court, finding him deficient, sentences him to death.

Albert Camus, a Nobel Laureate, rightfully earns his place in history. The statement from 1957 when he received the Nobel Prize in Literature sums it up: “For his important literary production, which with clear-sighted earnestness illuminates the problems of the human conscience in our times.”

Tragically, three years later, he was killed in a car accident in France. In his briefcase was the incomplete first draft of a new book, Le Premier Homme (The First Man), a testament to his creative spirit.

I studied Camus’ 1942 novel L'Etranger at university. At that time, like the average reader, I read his books for pleasure, even though they were later examined for my degree. I devoured his works, biographies, and critical reviews in French and English. I was also fascinated by his identity as a “pied-noir” (French settlers in Algeria before independence in 1962).

Now, as a medical/legal translator/proofreader, I know that people’s assumption that a translator can translate anything is untrue. Most translators stay in specialized areas. I sometimes translate marketing and tourism materials for a change, but literary translators have a unique mission. They must interpret the author’s views as closely as possible, which is very difficult and can sometimes go wrong, as seen in some translations of major literary works.

Years later, I’m rereading L'Etranger in English and looking for the best translator. There are two translations with different renditions of the title and the famous first line. Camus’ use of “Maman” in the first line is a point of debate. While “Maman died today” is a direct translation, the context and cultural setting make the choice of the word more complex. I prefer the formal “Mother” in this context.

The translation by Matthew Ward follows Camus’ style to appeal to an American audience, with short clipped sentences. However, as a UK national, I’m not sure I like it. Sandra Smith’s translation, “The Outsider,” is also highly regarded. She based her translation on a recording of Camus reading aloud and sensitively renders the subtleties of the book.

The book itself is set in Camus’ Algiers, where the protagonist, Meursault, leads a cavalier lifestyle. He shows no emotion at his mother’s death, which makes society see him as an “outsider” and a threat. The other main characters, Raymond, Marie, and Salamano, are all part of Meursault’s absurd circle.

The book gradually reveals the Franco-Algerian attitudes of that era, with its penal system and views on life. Meursault’s actions and lack of emotion highlight the worthlessness of society as a whole.

As a reader, I often think about the transitory nature of life. We are here today and gone tomorrow, like the May fly. After reading this book, I’ve determined that I’m not a nihilist, but perhaps an existentialist. The question of why we exist remains unanswered, but as Descartes said, “Cogito, ergo sum.”

I found this thought-provoking book exceptional. It made an impression on me and shows what a remarkable author Camus was. Whether he was an existentialist or an absurdist is still a matter of debate, but regardless, his works continue to be relevant and influential.

In conclusion, Camus’ L'Etranger is a literary masterpiece that explores the human conscience and the absurdity of life. It is a must-read for anyone interested in philosophy, literature, or the human condition.

The novel - The question, that eternal question of why we are here and what is the purpose or meaning of our existence. The answer (according to Camus): no reason, nothing, chance and nothingness!

Camus presents a character (Meursault) who is detached from emotion, gives him some logic in thinking (we will all die someday), strips away any spiritual thought from him and makes him completely materialistic (all his needs were material, from food and drink to sleep and even leading to crime because of his indifference like the sun), modifies his reactions to become extremely simplistic, so that we have before us a cold, glassy man who doesn't care about the past and is not interested in what will come, a man of nothingness who embodies Camus' philosophy completely.

He places this character in a narrative framework and lets the events unfold starting from the death of Meursault's mother. His normal reaction (we will all die) shows no emotions or feelings or longing or fear in the face of death or any human emotion, but rather complete coldness and indifference. Even after the funeral, he was relieved and slept peacefully... The entrance of Marie into his life was also by chance, the chance that later took them to the beach and almost led them to get married just by a decision (let's get married) without any feeling, just a physical need to satisfy or not satisfy, it makes no difference to him. The crime of killing also came "by chance" with the addition of material elements and illusions or visual deceptions that created a nervous reaction in his wound, so he fired the bullet not deliberately to kill the "Arab", but he didn't care or feel remorse, so he fired four more bullets. The trial and prison were a serial theatrical attempt to link the absence of emotion with the crime and attempt to answer the old questions about fate and his path and understanding of life and the existence of God or the "need for His existence"...

Despite the complete differences with Camus' philosophy, this work, as an embodiment of nihilistic philosophy, came precisely, strikingly, coldly from a strange place among similar copies, and from a cold place among hot blood, and from a material place among scattered souls, and from an indifferent place in life among those who are attached to it!

An exquisite and somewhat haunting tale unfolds, revealing the path to ruin taken by a young man following the tragic death of his mother. I am truly captivated by the description of this work by J.G. Ballard: "The story of a beach murder, one of the century's classic novels. Blood and sand." This description alone piques my curiosity and makes me eager to explore more of Ballard's works. It is evident that his writing has the power to transport readers into a world filled with mystery and intrigue. I most definitely should be delving deeper into the literary universe of this great author. (Regrettably, this review is rather limited as it was written in 2012.) 8 out of 12.

2012 read

I don't know why I understood this foreigner. I don't know why I gave the right to Meursault to look at the world and the events around him in this way and be indifferent. I don't know how I read the courtroom scenes one by one and was angry at the stupidity and idiocy of the people around him who related one thing to another in order to get rid of him. I don't know how I also understood and understood a person with a personality that is separate and different from the personality of Meursault in the story and looked at everything like him and from his point of view. I appreciate the pen of Albert Camus or Albert Camus in this book and his descriptions of a person who does not feel the world like other emotional and empty people. I say that I wish I had known this writer earlier and read a book by him earlier and encouraged myself to read another work by him, which I will do now and recommend that you live with these 144 pages and look at the world from the perspective of Meursault. It may seem cold and tiring, but it is so special that it is beyond my ability to say what I felt and what I saw. I just say and repeat that his way of looking was special, special, and special...

It's truly remarkable how Camus presents this unique character and his perspective. The story unfolds in a way that makes us question our own understanding of the world and our place in it. Meursault's actions and reactions are both baffling and thought-provoking. We are left to wonder if his indifference is a form of courage or simply a lack of emotion. The courtroom scenes are particularly intense, as we see the flaws and biases of the people around him. Camus' writing style is简洁而有力, painting a vivid picture of the events and the characters. It makes us want to explore more of his works and gain a deeper understanding of his philosophy.

\\n  \\n    “Since we're all going to die, it's obvious that when and how don't matter.” \\n  \\n

The protagonist, Meursault, is truly a character who couldn't care less about anything. His indifference is both alarming and fascinating. He shows no emotional responses, as if he is dead inside. He lives solely in the present moment, unable to understand the past or anticipate the future.

He murders someone simply because the sun is in his eyes. At his mother's funeral, all he can think about is his own tiredness and need for sleep. His fiancé greets him with love, but all he sees is her physical appearance. He fails to understand that she has emotions and that his cold behavior affects her. This makes one wonder if he might be on the autism spectrum, at an extreme end.

Albert Camus, in creating such a character, has presented one of the greatest literary mysteries. What happened to Meursault to make him this way? Was he born like this, or is it due to a social disorder? Did a broken heart cause his detachment? There are countless possible answers, and it's impossible not to speculate.

In a way, Meursault reminds one of an awkward child or teen, drifting through life without a voice or the ability to form his own opinions. The book has a haunting quality, leaving the reader feeling unnerved and puzzled. It's a strong piece of writing, yet it lacks a certain power and purpose. Some may see Meursault's lack of conformity as purposeful, but to me, he is a victim of his own coldness.

The Outsider is a thought-provoking novel that explores themes of detachment, alienation, and loneliness. It makes us question our own emotions and how we relate to the world around us.

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Stranger: A person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar.

As I sit here, having just completed this remarkable little book, I find myself grappling with the question of what meaning I should ascribe to it. Is life truly without purpose? Does love hold no significance? Do our actions have real consequences? Are we fated to be forgotten? Do I even begin to comprehend what Camus was attempting to convey? Should I take the plunge and learn French to read it in its original form?

Meursault was indeed a stranger. He led a life that seemed devoid of meaning. He left little to no impression on those around him. He didn't truly care for anyone or anything. No one truly knew him, not even himself. What kind of existence could that be? To be completely indifferent to everyone, to everything, to every experience that constitutes a life. To derive no joy from friendship or love, to have no dreams or aspirations, to never hope for anything. Do all our hopes, dreams, and experiences ultimately amount to anything when we reach the end of our days? Will anything we do in our lives halt the inevitable march towards death that we all face? Who can say that Meursault was in the wrong? What is the point of investing so much time and energy into relationships and experiences if it all proves to be meaningless in the end? I've likely misinterpreted the entire work, but given my density and emotional stunting, I can hardly be held accountable.

It was a great short read that I thoroughly enjoyed. However, be forewarned that it will leave you with far more questions than answers.

I was on the verge of awarding it 4 stars. However, the final few pages managed to persuade me to select it as one of my all-time 5-star favorite books.

"He was existing like a deceased individual. Meanwhile, it seemed as if I was the one who had come away empty-handed. But I was positive about myself, about everything. I was more certain than he could ever be, certain of my life and certain of the death that awaited me." I would be willing to sacrifice my life to achieve the same level of certainty that he felt regarding what he chose to live for and do with his life.

I earnestly hope that one day Mr Paul Thomas Anderson would adapt this play into a movie. I wager that the last chapter would be as overpowering as the "milk shake scene" in his movie "There Will Be Blood".

It is truly a remarkable piece of work that has left a profound impact on me. The vivid descriptions and the thought-provoking themes make it a must-read for any book lover. I can't wait to see how it would translate onto the big screen if Mr Anderson decides to take on this project.

Camus, you have a Beautiful Soul!

So conceded Albert Camus’ longtime friend, confidante, and fellow agent provocateur, Jean-Paul Sartre, at the time of the much-publicized rift that ended their felicitous comradeship. Well, and you know what? Camus always had something Sartre didn’t - a warm, caring HUMANNESS. THAT’s why everyone who reads this book admires it. Camus was for REAL.

Camus, like so many mid-century existentialists, was alienated from traditional societal roles and structures. But, unlike them - and so many of us - he WASN’T alienated from his Real SELF! That’s because, unlike Sartre, he didn’t live in his Head. He lived in his Soul, which, in becoming a persona non grata, knew positive LIBERATION from his Self. Because he knew the phony Self to be only the Origin of Darkness.

But like Sartre and Beckett, though himself Algerian, he learned his lessons under the Vichy French. “Et les soldats faisent la haie?” Then throw sand in their faces! Liberté, fraternité, égalité all the way... But politics divides, as our essential humanity unifies, and it is on the latter quality that I’ll focus, for Camus was essentially a voice for Unification.

This novel is about one man’s reentry into his Humanity. Much MORE than about Life’s meaninglessness. And for Camus, too, I think, who might just have said: That is not what I mean to say at all... (for) It is IMPOSSIBLE to say just what I mean! But though it is notoriously difficult to communicate it, Camus had found his Answer in the end: That the clear and calm Eye of the Storm is right at the centre of its fury. Once you see that, it is enough.

Just look at the old B&W stills of him at the height of his fame - surrounded by cooing coeds! Doesn’t seem much to me like he wasn’t loving his life... But I guess maybe - just maybe - before his own, much like Merseault’s, existential somersault (his hero’s takes place in the blinding glare of the dry sun that hot day on the beach), he was just an automaton. Look at that devilish grimace on his young face, cigarette dangling rebelliously from his scowling lips, in that infamous early mug shot! Going vaguely through the motions. Like so many of us, if we are still in the workforce. Not much giving a darn. About anything.

I too was a robot - till the day I retired. That was the day all my chickens came home to roost. You know, someone who is still working said to my wife that it’s best to keep busy when you retire - so your mind won’t wander. I got news for that person. It wanders willy-nilly - all by itself. Stop it, and you’ll slowly shrivel up and die. But there’s one thing you can do. You can always try to connect the dots, slowly and patiently. Remember E.M Forster’s Howards End? “Only connect!” Recover your Lost Humanity.

Well, that’s what I did - and what happened to Merseault that day on the beach, happened to me, sitting on my rocking chair. A huge prise de conscience. All at once, it fell into place. I wasn’t mad, most Noble Festus, no - but my two feet were back on the ground for the first time in ages. I was free. And alive. For we are all part of a Huge and Vibrant Human Reality in the midst of whose ceaseless action is the only Peace that’s real. And that’s what happened to Merseault, and so what did he do? He “sang in his chains like the Sea!” For - Imprisoned, he is now Human.. Condemned, he’s now Alive. He has the inestimable freedom of the Eternal Present Moment of his Life... And NOBODY can take it away from him.

I am a 20-something clerk, and I suspect I might have undiagnosed Asperger's. My life is a strange mix of routine and detachment. I observe the people around me with an analytical eye, as if they are characters in a story I'm not quite a part of.

Even when I found myself on trial for a pointless murder, I described the events and the people involved with the same cold detachment. I feel like a stranger to my closest family. They don't seem to understand me, and perhaps I don't understand them either. The death of my mother, whose age I can't even remember, was more of an inconvenience than a reason for grieving. I know this might seem heartless, but that's just the way I feel.

Some people have likened my story to Kafka's, and I can see the similarities. But in many ways, my story is much more conventional. It's a story about a young man trying to make sense of a world that doesn't always make sense to him.

I thought this book was a waste of time. It was about a guy who seemed to be completely wasting his existence.

He just drifted through life, not really having any purpose or direction.

I found myself getting frustrated with his lack of initiative and his seemingly apathetic attitude towards everything.

I guess I wouldn't make a very good existentialist because I can't seem to understand or empathize with the way this character was living.

Existentialism is all about finding meaning and purpose in life, even in the face of absurdity and chaos.

But this guy didn't seem to be making any effort to do that.

Maybe I'm just too practical or too goal-oriented to really get it.

But whatever the reason, this book just didn't do it for me.

What occurs when we encounter a hive of adhesive words that seem mouthwatering on the surface yet seizing them muddles the lines engraved in our minds? How does it feel when a sort of hurricane is unleashed upon our concepts that, until now, were not prone to severe ambiguity? It's rather harsh actually; willingly allowing oneself to wander into alleys where danger signs are hanging at every short step, at every dark window. But the human mind is an extremely peculiar creature - it belongs to us as much as it is free.

Yesterday, I met a certain Monsieur Meursault in these alleys. I had also met him a long time ago. However, this remarkably unremarkable man had not left much of an impression on me. Except, of course, for his streak of absurdity, which was rather repugnant yet unavoidable. Meeting him again was fascinating since I had heard that time changes people. Or perhaps time changes itself? But nevertheless, the more time passes, the more显著 the change seems. But Mr. Meursault defies this logic. He seemed absurd then, and he seems absurd now. But has the 'absurd' changed?

Not knowing the age of his deceased mother, not shedding a single tear during her funeral, returning to his life and living as if nothing has changed, finding no difference in marrying the woman he makes love to and a random woman on the road, agreeing to stand witness for a rogue in exchange for a black pudding dinner, allowing himself to follow a marked man for no apparent reason, remembering only the faint tinkering bell from a passing ice-cream cart out of all the noises during his trial (for murder) – Does all this make him absurd in my eyes? No. His state of mind can easily be mistaken for that of someone who has endured a barrage of reality bullets on his chest and has had his eyes blinded by the truth floating at a level easily overlooked by the common people. In his acute observations of the ordinary, one can almost touch his sensibilities. In his tacit acceptances, one can appreciate his measured detachment. In his distracting ways, one can sense a burning need for action that prevents the frozen feet of life from remaining so.

So what makes him absurd? His questionable use of freedom. He is free to act and be accountable for the consequences. Then why is a consciousness emerging from his deepest struggles in conflict with his happiness? Why are there flashes of wishes bothering him from streams that were firmly in his grasp and he let them slip in his boredom? If he was indeed viewing life from a balcony that didn't have a lamp from Worldly Fairs, then why should its glow trouble him in prison? Why should he attempt to be like others after receiving the compliment the previous day of being different, even intelligent? If people's opinions do matter, then he is far from being indifferent.

Meursault appeared to be a person who had embraced life in a certain way. But his fingers kept slipping off life's pulse which continued to change its course. He had his moments of victory and defeat. Just like me. But he landed the role of the protagonist in Camus' story and not I, because he never stopped believing in what he did despite catastrophes of enormous magnitudes. Whether that was right or wrong is not determinable, but what is determinable is his courage to be true to himself.

\\n  \\n    ’I never thought of days as such, only the words 'yesterday' and 'tomorrow' still kept some meaning.\\n  \\n

Yes, he had a simpler definition of life which our complex eyes may find difficult to understand. But with a long, careful look, we won't label him a stranger. For he represented a part of us that is occasionally absurd to the onlooker; a part of us that only makes sense to us.