"The wondrous peace of this sleeping summer flooded into me. At that point, on the verge of daybreak, there was a scream of sirens. They were announcing a departure to a world towards which I would now be forever indifferent. For the first time in a very long time I thought of mother. I felt that I understood why at the end of her life she had taken a 'fiance' and why she'd pretended to start again. There at the home where lives faded away, there too the evenings were a kind of melancholy truce…
…As if this great outburst had purged all my ills, killed all my hopes, I looked up at the mass of signs and stars in the night sky and laid myself open for the first time to the benign indifference of the world. And finding it so much like myself, in fact so fraternal, I realized that I'd been happy, and that I was still happy…"
I've never been gladder for having bought a book that I almost didn't buy. There's good books and bad books and smart books and silly books. Very few though, that are true. Read the Outsider somebody. I wouldn't type up such long passages from a book that wasn't fucking brilliant.
Here's a bit from Camus' afterword, about Meursault (who, fyi, is a man who got tried for killing another man but got hanged for not crying at his mother's funeral):
"For example he is asked to say that he regrets his crime, in time-honoured fashion. He replies that he feels more annoyance about it than true regret. And it is this nuance that condemns him.
So for me Meursault is not a reject, but a poor and naked man, in love with a sun which leaves no shadows."
What a writer.