Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. (If only Meursault had cried at her funeral).
I recently re-read The Stranger by Albert Camus . I read it for the first time when I was in my twenties. I’m not sure why I decided to read it again. I wasn’t depressed. My mother hadn’t died. I hadn’t killed anyone. It was probably a combination of several minor factors…
I remembered the book primarily as an indictment of the death penalty, but my youthful reading didn’t absorb much of Camus’ Absurdist philosophy.
I say, read the book. Camus might have said: “Read it. Don’t read it. Whatever.”