L'étranger, Albert Camus

I've been living in Switzerland for three years and I'm happy to report that my level of French is now almost at a B2 level. I'm getting there. When I landed in Geneva I wasn't planning to stay; I had plans to work in humanitarian affairs somewhere without wi-fi or electricity, but then I met my husband and the rest was history ✨

We live in the French-speaking part of the country, and even though we are pretty close to Geneva with its vibrant international community where English dominates the scene, if you want to stay, you better learn the local language. And so here we are.

At first, I didn't like French, but now, after learning, speaking and reading as much as I can, I do. It's a very sweet language, incredibly rich, but full of complications, exceptions and tongue twisters. Hence, I try to soak in as much French as I can but... it is hard, especially because most of our friends are bilingual and we end up speaking in French. I'm an avid reader, so this is a front which I'm trying to take advantage of.

Last week, I finished L'étranger, written by Albert Camus, literature Nobel Prize, in 1942. Here's a brief bio from Albert Camus from the Nobel Prize website:

Albert Camus (1913-1960) was a representative of non-metropolitan French literature. His origin in Algeria and his experiences there in the thirties were dominating influences in his thought and work. Of semi-proletarian parents, early attached to intellectual circles of strongly revolutionary tendencies, with a deep interest in philosophy (only chance prevented him from pursuing a university career in that field), he came to France at the age of twenty-five. The man and the times met: Camus joined the resistance movement during the occupation and after the liberation was a columnist for the newspaper Combat. But his journalistic activities had been chiefly a response to the demands of the time; in 1947 Camus retired from political journalism and, besides writing his fiction and essays, was very active in the theatre.

From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969.

The book starts when Meursault, the main character of the book, receives the news that his mother has passed away, so he goes on to attend his mother's funeral and concludes the formalities surrounding her life. A few days later, he kills an Arab man and ends up being sentenced to death. The book is written in first person, with a polished and yet extremely simple style.

At first, when I started reading, one of the things that shocked me the most was the detachment of Meursault to his mother, or more precisely, the apathy towards her death. At points I wondered if Camus was describing a person with a serious disorder, or simply a man with extremely simple emotions. In case you may wonder, it was the latter. I still can't grasp why he decides to kill the Arab man, from all the things Meursault could have done, why did he decide to kill? But then... going on into the story, the reader understands why: Camus is trying to make a point here: he's making Meursault face other people's, or better, society's expectations: they expect he believes in God, they expect he regrets killing, they expect he understands why he's being sentenced to death. He finally does understand, at least according to his own terms.

Through the events that happen in the novel, I enjoyed how subtly Camus poses such philosophical questions to the reader:

• What society expects from us

• What we really believe and feel in contrast

• How these two things are in conflict with each other

• How we suffer as a consequence of the lack of understanding

Particularly, I loved how exquisitely the book ends:

Là- bas, là-bas aussi, autour de cet asile où des vies s’éteignaient, le soir était comme une trêve mélancolique. Si près de la mort, maman devait s’y sentir libérée et prête à tout revivre. Personne, personne n’avait le droit de pleurer sur elle. Et moi aussi, je me suis senti prêt à tout revivre. Comme si cette grande colère m’avait purgé du mal, vidé d’espoir, devant cette nuit chargée de signes et d’étoiles, je m’ouvrais pour la première fois à la tendre indifférence du monde. De l’éprouver si pareil à moi, si fraternel enfin, j’ai senti que j’avais été heureux, et que je l’étais encore. Pour que tout soit consommé, pour que je me sente moins seul, il me restait à souhaiter qu’il y ait beaucoup de spectateurs le jour de mon exécution et qu’ils m’accueillent avec des cris de haine