#1 of 52 – 52 Books in 52 Weeks

(With apologies in advance for my stream-of-consciousness ramblings, which may or may not make much sense.) Spoilers for the book follow:

When I finished reading, I was left with the strangest feeling; as if I had lost something, but didn’t know what. It was a feeling of absence, or maybe uncertainty. The first thing that hit me, really punched me in the gut, was Salamano and his dog. I was struck by their relationship–abusive on Salamano’s part, to be sure–but there was more. It is no coincidence that he and the dog (nameless?) look alike. Indeed, the dog is a reflection of Salamano. When he mistreats his dog, it is his projection of self-loathing; his true feelings about himself. Maybe when he calls his dog a “stinking bastard,” he really means himself.

I have mixed feelings about Meursault. I wondered how he became so detached from people–from the world itself. Maybe the lack of a father figure had something to do with it. I thought it intriguing how his mother is such a driving force throughout the whole story, even though the book starts out with her already dead. On the other hand, we don’t hear anything about his father till nearly the end. If you believe that everything is free will, that you take responsibility for your actions, then what made him choose that kind of life? So indifferent–so cold, abstract–disconnected from humanity. it seemed impossible for him to feel love toward the people who should be closest to him: his mother, his girlfriend, his friends. The most he was capable of feeling was fondness, but that’s clearly not the same thing. It’s not really till the end of the story–and the end of his life–that Meursault feels a sense of joy and happiness, in the “gentle indifference of the world.” It’s such a contradiction, a paradox. But so is he.

I felt myself sympathizing with him, even though I maybe shouldn’t have. He did commit murder, after all. But the randomness, the nonsensical nature of it, felt off-balance to me. I know, objectively, that were he a real person, I would not feel sympathy. But being in his head, sharing his thoughts and feelings and pain…I felt for him. And I thought, as Celeste testified, that it was just “bad luck” for Meursault. Bad luck indeed.

Luck? Fate? Or free will. Getting what he deserved. What a strange crime, what a random act of violence. Not even a crime of passion, really; how passionate can one feel about someone they don’t even know?

I imagine these are the questions that could have kept Meursault awake at night, alone in his jail cell, on the eve of his execution. But then again, maybe not. Maybe he had resigned himself to the nothingness–the meaninglessness of it all–and in that realization, found his own peace.

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