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A review by clay1st
The Stranger by Albert Camus
5.0
**spoiler alert**
Camus' depiction of society's obsession with emotional narratives feels very relevant today, perhaps as much as it ever has been. Poor Meursault and his lack of emotional expressivity bears the brunt of this social bias. Is every man who doesn't shed a tear over the death of his mother a monster? I don't doubt some would say yes.
Don't be fooled into thinking this is a sob story for emotionally repressed men or those with what psychiatry would describe as 'callous-unemotional traits'.
On the contrary, if we take a small step back, the reader should realize they have been taken in by our own emotional narrative, from within Meursault's own mind. A narrative that Mersault's lawyer struggles to reproduce in the courtroom but we reader, trapped behind soundproof glass panes, bang our fists and shout urging the jury to see our perspective - but they hear nothing.
Which perspective is real, which is more true, are we biased by our attachment to amiable Meursault? What kind of emotional state best mitigates a crime anyway? Meursault is living a kind of somnambulist existence in which he, when pressed, will admit himself that he doesn't know why he does things. Do any of us really know why we do things? Meursault's total honesty about his state of mind comes across as deeply touching and innocent but is it really a mitigation for his actions? The more I think about it the more I wonder if Meursault really is a dangerous man.
I'm left with very confused feelings for Meursault, on the one hand his thoughts are so amiable and at times empathetic, profound and reflective, but on the other hand - why does he hang out with Raymond, a man who appears deeply despicable; why does he write that letter for him? Why does he unload the last 4 shots? It doesn't add up - this is a thoughtful man who lives a life that doesn't seem to suit those thoughts.... and yet it also seems quite plausible. It's been a while since a book really got me thinking this much.
Camus' depiction of society's obsession with emotional narratives feels very relevant today, perhaps as much as it ever has been. Poor Meursault and his lack of emotional expressivity bears the brunt of this social bias. Is every man who doesn't shed a tear over the death of his mother a monster? I don't doubt some would say yes.
Don't be fooled into thinking this is a sob story for emotionally repressed men or those with what psychiatry would describe as 'callous-unemotional traits'.
On the contrary, if we take a small step back, the reader should realize they have been taken in by our own emotional narrative, from within Meursault's own mind. A narrative that Mersault's lawyer struggles to reproduce in the courtroom but we reader, trapped behind soundproof glass panes, bang our fists and shout urging the jury to see our perspective - but they hear nothing.
Which perspective is real, which is more true, are we biased by our attachment to amiable Meursault? What kind of emotional state best mitigates a crime anyway? Meursault is living a kind of somnambulist existence in which he, when pressed, will admit himself that he doesn't know why he does things. Do any of us really know why we do things? Meursault's total honesty about his state of mind comes across as deeply touching and innocent but is it really a mitigation for his actions? The more I think about it the more I wonder if Meursault really is a dangerous man.
I'm left with very confused feelings for Meursault, on the one hand his thoughts are so amiable and at times empathetic, profound and reflective, but on the other hand - why does he hang out with Raymond, a man who appears deeply despicable; why does he write that letter for him? Why does he unload the last 4 shots? It doesn't add up - this is a thoughtful man who lives a life that doesn't seem to suit those thoughts.... and yet it also seems quite plausible. It's been a while since a book really got me thinking this much.