Though a tremendously popular and engaging psychological novel in hindsight, I wouldn’t have read it if not for the French; if not for my relentless French-reading period now surpassing a year and a half. And even then, I’m not overly keen on reading more of the sort. But bear with me.
I read Albert Camus' first novel like a page-turner: slightly more diligently, perhaps, in effort to penetrate the gulfs of Meursault’s grotesque landscape. There’s plenty of surprise. On paper, it succeeds, and quiet phenomenally. But you must surely know I’m not much for page turners.
Don’t misinterpret. On numerous occasions I drew associations with Dostoevsky, much of whom I read many years back with frightening voracity, when more allured by precisely that kind of prose, perhaps for its novelty. And that’s no petty acclaim.
But today, I’m simply less into the gripping psychological narratives. That is, not when that makes for the focal point.
You know what I prefer: poetry, ethnography, satire, unconventional structure, confusing syntax and particularly the recruitment of numerous of these elements.
Effectively everything that wears me with L'étranger applies equally to my earlier experiences with a couple of André Gide novels; or the Russian translation of Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf from many years back: books that achieve one thing predominantly well in these perplexing psychological profiles through whose unconventional lenses we gradually acquire shreds of reality.
L'étranger fits splendidly into the embraces of twentieth century modern, conventional canon. But it’s not for me. I can’t read Hemingway either with any enthusiasm. Although much of that writing very much drew me in the past.
Who am I kidding. Twenty years ago, I would’ve loved Camus' chef d'oeuvre. Today, I can’t consider it of much reread value, the one all-encompassing metric I most emphasize.
But to be a tad more objective …
Similar to André Gide’s L'immoraliste, there is likewise some historical byproduct to be derived. L'étranger takes place entirely in the French Algeria, colonized for over a century until 1962. (L'immoraliste features Algeria as one of the diverse settings.) In Algeria, Camus himself was born and raised.
To an extent, both books expose political and ethno relations between the indigenous (Arab) population and the ‘pied-noir’ - the French colonists. (Accurately, I want to say, though who am I to gauge?) For me, this is one of the most valuable aspects of both novels.
In the case of Camus, you’ll find some curious character profiles and developments. Salamano with his dog made for me the highlight. And then the surreal asylum concierge … and the whole Raymond fiasco. The protagonist within the deranged dynamic evokes an eerie semblance with Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.
That is, Camus (through Meursault) depicts the drama, the surroundings, the minutiae, even the little props we might elsewhere consider awkward, quiet exceptionally well. Not ‘Joyce well’, but ‘Dostoevsky well’.
There’s nothing objectively weak of this novel/novella. It even drew some emotion of me. Internally, I may have shed a tear during certain fragments. There’s underlying catharsis at play.
But again, that’s not the kind of writing I seek these days … these years. And seeing that my pompous standards condemn me to eternally draw comparisons with the many-books-in-one authors as Joyce, Borges, Poe; or the poetic prosaics among Schwob, Babel, Gogol; what more can you expect of me?
Questions, comments? Connect.