Title:
The Stranger
Author:
Albert Camus
Translated
by: Stuart Gilbert (French to British)
Publication:
Vintage Books
Genre:
Thriller, Literary Fiction
Pages:
96
Source:
Kindle edition
Rating:
5/5
Few
writers don’t just write, but create the whole new world for their readers. They
phrase many questions in reader’s mind with their outstanding works. Although
it is my first read of Albert Camus but it touched me to the core and more than
a thriller it is great way to know the limits, a writer can think. Albert Camus
was an Algerian-Born French Nobel prize winning author and philosopher of 20th
century.
The
story starts with “MOTHER died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure.”
and with his first line author captured you immensely in his journey. It is a story
of Mersault, a young man who commits a crime, in a heat-dazed moment he shot an
Arab and condemned to death.
Here
author’s narrative skills played a fabulous role by giving a unpredictable turn
to the story. When court just ignored the matter of fact why this murder kind
of thing happened but they seemed more curious about ‘his unkindness towards
her mother. ‘He was being judged for his real character that he has no opinion
about anything, why he doesn’t feel much.
By
his brilliantly told philosophical work, Albert Camus unintentionally gives you
the power to read between the lines. There are more characters in the book as
her mother’s friends at her funeral, Mersault’s girl, few so-called- friends. There are places in this book where you will
find a very well known stranger, living with a mournful solace.
The
lines which makes you think more about the protagonist‘s character..
I
tried to picture a moment when the beating of my heart no longer echoed in my
head.
So,
what with long bouts of sleep, my memories, readings of that scrap of
newspaper, the tides of light and darkness, the days slipped by. I'd read, of
course, that in jail one ends up by losing track of time. But this had never
meant anything definite to me. I hadn't grasped how days could be at once long
and short. Long, no doubt, as periods to live through, but so distended that
they ended up by overlapping on each other. In fact, I never thought of days as
such; only the words "yesterday" and "tomorrow" still kept
some meaning.
The
sun was setting and it was the hour of which I'd rather not speak—"the
nameless hour," I called it—when evening sounds were creeping up from all
the floors of the prison in a sort of stealthy procession. I went to the barred
window and in the last rays looked once again at my reflected face. It was as
serious as before; and that wasn't surprising, as just then I was feeling
serious. But, at the same time, I heard something that I hadn't heard for
months. It was the sound of a voice; my own voice, there was no mistaking it.
And I recognized it as the voice that for many a day of late had been sounding
in my ears. So I knew that all this time I'd been talking to myself.
If
you want to know about your existence and the essence of life, Highly
Recommended, an enigmatic work of Albert Camus!
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