He wastes no time articulating his feelings, or even feeling much, for that matter.īut it was the final chapter that knocked on my door. Mersault is an emotionally distant dude, biologically living but barely living otherwise. You know that feeling when the author is purposely being cryptic and you just can’t get why? Yeah, that. When I started reading this book, I was very confused by the first few chapters. Throughout the whole absurd life I’d lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living. Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew why. If you want a pre TL DR, the quote below pretty much sums up the entire book. Plus, I was in the mood for something philosophical, cerebral, a little mental-gymnastics, if you will. I don’t know why I chose to read this book out of all the others. I’ve been feeling a little existential lately.
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