The Stranger, by Albert Camus

My indoctrination into the Public School system of the United States of America occurred at the ripe young age of five years old. They quickly taught me how to sit “Indian Style” on the floor, listen carefully when they spoke, be mindful of the other children around me and how to stand at attention and pledge allegiance to a drab, faded flag that hung grimly in the corner of the classroom. I worked my way through the brainwashing, primarily due to expectations from the authorities and adults around, until I graduated from my local Public High School – fully unprepared for life, but I had a piece of paper that I could frame, if I chose to, that would look nice hanging upon my wall.

I performed manual labour to allow myself to attend painful Public Community College classes at night, so I could expand my mind and put the memories of brainless time card punching behind me as quickly as possible. In order to obtain the education that would actually teach me meaningful, market required skills, I had to take a multitude of “liberal arts” classes to learn how to feel guilty and be “more well rounded”. I had some difficult choices to make, but some were actually interesting to me. I always loved to read and fancied myself a writer, so the Literature classes that were available caught my fancy, and even gave me some hope of creative learning.

I had taken countless English and literature classes before, and this one was reasonably interesting, but did not blow me away. I looked at the reading list and there was one book I had heard about but never read – The Stranger, by Albert Camus. I heard mixed reviews from those in class that were already subjected to this book earlier in their education. “Oh crap – not that boring book about some guy without a conscious”. One person belaboured, and then they proceeded to trash every other book on the list as though they could have picked better books while closing their eyes and surfing Amazon.com, randomly clicking away.

I read The Stranger that Winter for the first time and was absolutely underwhelmed. I found that I wanted to do just about anything else, including housework, which I assure you that I don’t enjoy in the least, than read that book. I made my way through it because I had to, damn it, I was performing manual labour so I could pay for the honour of driving all the way to campus and spend a half hour trying to find parking so I could be late to class and learn how little I understood about “great” literature.

Why did I not enjoy and appreciate the brilliance of that little book delivered by Camus, as eloquent a writer as there ever has been, in such a simple and understated style? Was it because the timing was not right? Maybe I just wasn’t mature enough at the time? Perhaps my disdain for authority and the fact that I “had” to read this book made me uninterested? To be honest, I think it was a combination of all of these things.

I have now lost count of how many times I have read The Stranger, but I would have to say it is in the double digits. I have purchased that book, because I lost it in a move or a break-up, or a so called friend borrowed it and never returned, probably about 6 or 7 times. I used to love to write in the margins different ideas, questions, accusations and also underline my favourite passages. I always learned something new, identified hidden meanings that I believe Camus buried just below the surface, handing me a shovel and a blank map telling me “go for it Russ, find it”. I have discussed the Stranger with so many different people in my life, at vastly different points in my life. My life. It has been impacted by this little gem of a book.

If you have not read this book, please do and let me know your thoughts. If you have read it, please share your thoughts about it with me.

-Russ