Let me precede with the fact that I don't hate this book. In fact, I appreciate it a lot, because it's an excellent reminder that I don't have to connect with a story in order to enjoy it (and that I should, in fact take the story as the author intended, or whatever Nabokov the Almighty commanded of us). And the author really leaves no room for connection: this is by far the most emotionally dry book that I've encountered. The narrator seems to be an uncaring, unfeeling, almost inhuman thing which drifts through life like a dust bunny, letting the wind blow him any direction it pleases.
Emotional distance comes with a cost, but specifically a literary one. The Stranger reads slow, and that's because the only information we're given is in the form of descriptive observation, as opposed to more revealing (and arguably more interesting) emotional context and revelation. Throughout all of Meursault's interactions, we never get opinions from the narrator on the people he meets, only endless descriptions: the straw hat Raymond wears, the clear eyes of the director, how Marie floats on her back. It seems that these sections act as fillers for what would usually be raw human feelings. I mean how long can Camus describe the sun on page 58? Get to the gunshot! Reading about the beach for ten pages wore me out so much, by the time I got to the climax, I didn't even care anymore. I'm done reading about Marie's sundress and Raymond's sweaty upper lip. I'm bored.
Am I missing the point? What possible good comes of Meursault's emotional unavailability? What human truth is being revealed?
Okay, what if I were to tell you that the Stranger is the truest story of the human experience ever told? Wait until Friday ...
ReplyDeleteI personally find the fact that he doesn't have strong opinions on anyone pretty interesting and fitting for his role as a character who mostly just stumbles through his days without caring about much of anything. I also think that in a way, his descriptions are still fairly revealing. That being said, this is a fair point, and I definitely found myself bored at points as well.
ReplyDeleteTo be fair, it was written for an audience consisting of 1950's French people. I'm very attempted to agree with your impatience about the book (like alright, cool, it's weather. I'm So interested) but I think Nabakov would be disappointed in your comments!
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