The Stranger

My first dive into the works of Camus and I loved it. Although the first half was a bore to get through, part two picked up the pace and the last few pages were amazing! Would definitely go back to this once I've read the rest of Camus' works.

Do I need to give this book a rating? Five stars are too many; three stars too few. Does a rating mean anything without a review? So she wanted to know whether I loved the book. I answered... that it didn't mean anything, but that I probably didn't love the book.

J'ai trouvé ce roman très intéressant. La description des personnages, des scénarios et des scènes représente une image claire de ce qui se passe à l'extérieur et à l'intérieur de l'indifférence de Meursault. C'est un très bon travail.

I liked it.

I've been wanting to read Camus' work for years because I thought I agreed with most of his ideas. I tried reading The Stranger once before, a few months ago, and stopped around 25% through. I picked it up again today and it just clicked. Such a fantastic book. It's a depressing read and yet it's strangely comforting. If you've ever thought that life was meaningless or nothing matters, you should definitely read this book.

“Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?” “Yes,” I said.”

A great take on the concept of the Absurd...

Reread of a classic. I feel a bit more critical of it than I used to but I still think it's a really excellent book and philosophy.

There are no words to descibe this book. It's simple yet so profound that it leaves your mind in tatters. The philosophy of Albert Camus regarding this hypocritical society and the way it judges a person who doesn't conform with its fallacies, really changes your perception towards life. This is one of those books that has a deep impact on your mindset, once you've finished reading it. Camus beautifully mocks the absurdity of our futile search for meaning of life!

After finishing this, I feel like a need to go find a time machine and go back one of my college English Lit classes and chat about existentialism, narcissism, indifference and depression until we're going in circles.

Overall, an interesting and well written read. I get why it's considered a classic, why it's important in literature and why so many people feel so strongly about it. And yet, I was bored (that is when I wasn't depressed). Books with very little plot, lots of randomness, absurdity and no meaning to life are apparently not my cup of tea.

I thoroughly enjoyed this :) makes you think

Это какая-то скучная фигня для литературных критиков. Даже описание к этой книге на сайте невозможно понять неподготовленному человеку. Я прочитал примерно 10%, но за все это время мне ни разу не было интересно. Возможно, автор несет какую-то глубокую мысль, но слов подобрать не может так, чтобы я не уснул.

“I may not have been sure about what really did interest me, but I was absolutely sure about what didn't.”
― Albert Camus, The Stranger

This is probably the main work of Albert Camus. He was one of the great minds of the 20th century.

A great youtube introduction https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=97gSwtbBI-w

I rest my case.

ive read this in english and in french and while i'm pretty sure it's a good book i also remember nothing about it

También en: El Extraño Gato del CuentoMás que una novela, El Extranjero es un relato corto. Y como no había leído la sinopsis al principio tuve la idea de que la historia sería solo un viaje para sepultar a su madre y ahí terminaría todo la historia, sobre las reacciones o la falta de ellas del protagonista. Si soy completamente sincera pensé que el libro no me gustaría nada, pero como puedes ver al final le terminé poniendo cuatro de cinco estrellas.¿Qué tiene El Extranjero qué me gustó tanto? Para empezar me hizo pensar pensar mucho en el título, creo que en lugar de Extranjero habría sido más preciso “Extraño” (en la traducción también es aplicable). Siento que debería ser llamado el Extraño por la historia en sí, por como Meursault es juzgado por la forma bastante desinteresada con la que actúa, como cuando fue al entierro de su madre se distraía en otras cosas y como al final eso mismo fue lo que lo condenó.Me gustó mucho al final, pasó de ser un libro como el personaje: frío y sin mucho interés para luego ser muy intenso, al menos eso fue para mí.Twitter   Blog   Pinterest   Tumblr   Instagram

Non posso commentare in dettaglio questo racconto perché non conosco il pensiero filosofico che anima Camus. Limitandomi ad un commento generale, posso dire che l'impostazione del racconto mi è piaciuta ma non condivido l'idea di fondo del personaggio: non riesco difatti a comprendere come possa esistere una persona che sia totalmente indifferente al mondo e a qualunque sentimento umano. Non mi riferisco qui tanto al sentimento di amore quanto a quello di odio: come si può essere indifferenti all'odio?

Disappointed this wasn't the life-changing read everyone claimed it'd be. I might as well have just listened to another Damien Echols interview.

Lo straniero, un classico della letteratura contemporanea, è un romanzo dello scrittore e filosofo francese Albert Camus, vincitore del Premio Nobel del 1957, pubblicato nel 1942, questo libro è conosciuto per le sue tematiche che molti critici considerano esistenzialiste, come l'assurdità della vita e l'indifferenza del mondo. Camus però non si considerò mai un esistenzialista.

Protagonista è Meursault, un modesto impiegato che vive ad Algeri in uno stato di indifferenza, di estraneità a se stesso e al mondo. Un giorno, dopo un litigio, inesplicabilmente Meursault uccide un arabo. Viene arrestato e si consegna, del tutto impassibile, alle inevitabili conseguenze del fatto - il processo e la condanna a morte - senza cercare giustificazioni, difese o menzogne.

Camus, dopo la lettura di questo libro, di questo unico libro, arriva sicuramente ad essere uno dei miei autori preferiti, e anche se ne seguiranno certamente altri che non saprò quanto e se mi piaceranno, non cambierò il mio giudizio; perché le folgorazioni accadono e raramente mi succede di essere così fortemente catturato da una storia, o dal metodo di scrittura come in questo caso.

Leggendo questo meraviglioso di romanzo si avverte costantemente il desiderio di indugiare sopra ogni frase, rileggerla e rileggerla, un incipit che è forse uno dei più belli della letteratura:
“Oggi la mamma è morta. O forse ieri, non so. Ho ricevuto un telegramma dall'ospizio:“Madre deceduta. Funerali domani. Distinti saluti.”Questo non dice nulla: è stato forse ieri. L'ospizio dei vecchi è a Marengo, a ottanta chilometri da Algeri. Prenderò l'autobus delle due e arriverò ancora nel pomeriggio. Così potrò vegliarla e essere di ritorno domani sera. Ho chiesto due giorni di libertà al principale e con una scusa simile non poteva dirmi di no. Ma non aveva l'aria contenta. Gli ho persino detto: “Non è colpa mia.”

Oppure passi come “Ora il sole mi bruciava anche le guance e ho sentito delle gocce di sudore accumularsi nelle sopracciglia. Era lo stesso sole di quel giorno che avevo sotterrato la mamma e, come allora, era la fronte che mi faceva più soffrire: tutte le vene mi battevano insieme sotto la pelle. A causa di quel bruciore che non potevo più sopportare ho fatto un movimento in avanti. Sapevo che era stupido, che non mi sarei liberato dal sole spostandomi di un passo. Ma ho fatto un passo, un solo passo in avanti. E questa volta, senza alzarsi, l'arabo ha estratto il coltello e me l'ha presentato nel sole. La luce ha balenato sull'acciaio e fu come una lunga lama scintillante che mi colpisse alla fronte. In quello stesso momento, il sudore dalle mie sopracciglia è colato di colpo giù sulle palpebre e le ha ricoperte di un velo tepido e denso. Non sentivo più altro che il risuonar del sole sulla mia fronte e, indistintamente, la sciabola sfolgorante sprizzata dal coltello che mi era sempre di fronte. Quella spada ardente mi corrodeva le ciglia e frugava nei miei occhi doloranti. è allora che tutto ha vacillato. Dal mare è rimontato un soffio denso e bruciante. Mi è parso che il cielo si aprisse in tutta la sua larghezza per lasciar piovere fuoco. Tutta la mia persona si è tesa e ho contratto la mano sulla rivoltella. Il grilletto ha ceduto, ho toccato il ventre liscio dell'impugnatura e è là, in quel rumore secco e insieme assordante, che tutto è cominciato. Mi sono scrollato via il sudore ed il sole.Ho capito che avevo distrutto l'equilibrio del giorno, lo straordinario silenzio di una spiaggia dove ero stato felice. Allora ho sparato quattro volte su un corpo inerte dove i proiettili si insaccavano senza lasciare traccia. E furono come quattro colpi secchi che battevo sulla porta della sventura.”

“Lo Straniero” è un romanzo fondamentale, imperdibile ed attuale. Alienazione ed esistenzialismo: queste le due parole chiavi. Da non confondere con l'apatia, qui troviamo quasi una volontà di estraneità, da qualsiasi cosa, un silenzio per tutto il libro dove quasi non è il protagonista a parlare, ma la Natura che lo circonda (quella calda e soleggiata del Mediterraneo) rotto soltanto dai quattro colpi di pistola e dal grido finale.

Erano anni che non leggevo un libro del genere. Un capolavoro fin dalla prima frase, una scrittura disarmante.

I liked this book set in 1940s Algeria. Mersault's isolation and indifference to others and his own fate was creepy and thought-provoking.

This was very difficult for me to read because I wasn't used to the style of writing. In all honesty, what kept me going was the fact that it was recommended by a good friend and I had trust in his taste of books.
Overall, it didn't disappoint me. The ideas presented were beautifully articulated and although I read through chunks of paragraphs that I really didn't pay attention to, the bigger picture was still there and left me thinking about life and death (which is always a favourite topic).

I don't really know why I read this book. It wasn't that much interesting, really. It took me 2 weeks to finish this, but if this was one of those books I really like, it would just take me 2-3 hours.
I was disappointed that he never mourned for his Mother's death, I mean, is he for real? He never once visited his mom while she's in the Home and just right after the funeral, he went back home like nothing really happened, like his mother didn't die. Merssault is the kind of person who doesn't care about anything. He just goes with the flow of events in his life and never thinks about the future. I find him very boring and pitiful. I think he has no emotion and no ambition. If I was in his place, I'd defend myself but he didn't. I mean, yes, he killed the Arab man to defend himself. His life was pointless and has no direction. He's pretty much absorbed with the present, never the future nor the past, except when he was thinking of Marie.
I don't get why he never defended himself on the court and in front of the lawyers and the prosecutor. He accepted that he was a murderer just like that. I thought the prosecutor was a decent man because he was blabbering about God and all that, but in the end he judged Merssault based from what he'd heard and see, ugh, what a judgmental person.
I think he was just like most men, he doesn't believe in love, but he's attracted to women. I really liked dear old Salamano, he treats his dog like a trash, but deep inside he really loves the dog and I find that very moving.
When he was in jail, I thought of the people in the jail. They must be really bored inside, but I guess it's the payment for what they've done and the way for repentance. And I thought of all those prisoners who were really not guilty for the crimes and was just framed.
When he was talking to the chaplain, I realized he's a practical and realistic man. He just believes in what he sees and what he's sure of, maybe that's why he doesn't believe in God. I'd say he's neither bad nor good, but he's extraordinary.
I've learned a thing or two from this, but I won't mention it, read for yourself and you'll find out. 

“The Stranger” made a whole lot more sense after reading “The Myth of Sisyphus.” For me, “the absurd” articulates something very important from which most (all?) works of art stem - an attempt to find or impose human meaning and order in a world that rejects both. In the end, Meursault finds comfort by submitting to the absurd. But the extent to which this can be extrapolated as prescriptive is flushed out a bit more in the essay. Thus, these works should really be read together.

Very thought provoking...In this age of individualism do societal norms still play such an important role?

Good, possibly awesome, surprisingly comic and lighthearted. It was an unusual pairing with reading The Immoralist, which talks about some of the same emotional states but makes an entirely different statement about them. Possibly this didn't have an epic impact only because its sort of cold matter-of-factness has been adopted by many authors with less mojo than Camus.

According to the preface, this book is widely considered a work relating to existentialist philosophy though the author has denied it. I can well see how this comparison is made, as the protagonist appears to be dispassionately self-involved through most of the novel, which at least gives the impression of an existentialist worldview. It seems to me, however that rather than being a study in existentialism, this is a study of a man living mostly disconnected from the people and places he nevertheless enjoys interacting with and trying to understand. He seems to be able to go through the motions of living and pass himself off on some levels as a normal thinking/feeling human being, without the burden of really feeling or caring about anything beyond his own immediate desires.

His “breakdown” at the end of the novel is somewhat revealing, but only somewhat. I have to admit that at the end of the novel, I didn't necessarily “get it,” and felt that while it was an interesting character study, it didn't really enlighten any particular societal, psychological, or philosophical objective.

I often wonder if, in attempting to glean the most from a highly-regarded work, the experience is conscribed in such a way as to make it ultimately futile. Or perhaps I'm just too dense or mired in psychological and philosophical considerations to be open enough to truly benefit.