L’etranger – Gentle Indifference for the Nihilist in all of us.
Like a lot of young men traversing an embryonic philosophical interest, I picked up The Stranger when I was 22 and took an immediate liking to it. The themes it presents, the questions it asks and the mirror it holds to me as the reader, were all new and exciting subjects for me at the time. Needless to say, the following weeks sent me down a Camus rabbit hole which had me meet The Plague, The Fall and of course every neo-philosophy bro’s favourite hero; Sisyphus. Some of these were great, some were life-altering. But none of them are entirely comparable to The Stranger, for an array of reasons. I think the simplicity of The Stranger is perhaps its strongest attribute. The absurd world of Meursault and the nihilism he embodies are so matter of fact within the story that by the end of the 120 or so pages, Camus leaves his station as if no questions will be taken. His own mid-war mic-drop moment of 1940’s Paris.
3 years after my first encounter, I picked up The Stranger again and was delighted to find it still stood up for me. I think this is in part due to the fact that years later I am still seeking the answers to the questions my first read presented. I love the deeply seeded notions of absurdity and pessimism conveyed in the story, and to be really honest I love how the story makes me feel (sounds weird, I know). I find myself at once fundamentally rejecting the premise of Nihilism in my own world but entirely embracing it within Meursault’s. The idea that existentialism emphasizes individual freedom to define one’s own essence through choice and action is one I align with, and I feel it is the key to my rejecting embrace of the novel.
An underappreciated aspect of this novel is Camus’s ability to paint Algiers to the reader. I have never seen Algeria or even Africa. The closest I have stood is on the other side of the mediterranean on the shores of Nice. Yet, somehow I was doubtlessly stood on that beach looking down on the Arab. I felt the blistering heat of the sun on my neck despite being in the middle of an Australian winter and I walked Algerian streets I have never known, the whole time alongside Meursault and Marie. Camus’ ability to transport me and his use of imagery within the confines of a fictional philosophical journey is truly underappreciated. Having said that, it is easy to understand as it is but one element in a book that one a Nobel Prize and nearly 100 years after its publishing is still the talk of literature lovers across the globe.
A good novel to me presents an answer to previously unanswerable questions in our lives. I am indeed someone that often finds myself questioning my existence, my actions and their consequences and even the rationality of my motivations. The Stranger both confirms to me that the world is indeed an absurd state of affairs and one that merits no stress or emphasis, which is exactly why we must stress and emphasise. Whether Camus intends it or not, The Stranger has me joyously reeling and this time around, I find myself wondering if the meaning of life is to give life meaning.