The Stranger by Albert Camus

The Stranger (originally L’Étranger), Albert Camus’s first novel, was published in French by Gallimard on May 19, 1942, during the Nazi occupation of France, in a small initial print run of just 4,400 copies. Camus, born in 1913 in French colonial Algeria to a poor working-class family of Pieds-Noirs, lost his father in World War I and grew up amid poverty and illness; tuberculosis interrupted his studies, shaping his early awareness of life’s fragility and the absurdity of existence. Set in the sun-drenched streets and beaches of Algiers in the 1940s, the novella follows the detached clerk Meursault, whose indifferent response to his mother’s death, casual relationships, and seemingly motiveless murder of an unnamed Arab man on a blindingly hot beach expose the clash between individual honesty and society’s demand for emotional rituals, remorse, and meaning. Written in spare, flat prose that mirrors its protagonist’s emotional detachment, The Stranger serves as a powerful illustration of Camus’s philosophy of absurdism—the recognition that the universe is indifferent and life lacks inherent purpose—without Camus himself claiming the label of existentialist or formal philosopher. The novel subtly reflects the colonial tensions of French Algeria, where European settlers and the Arab population existed in unequal hierarchies, though Camus’s primary focus remains philosophical rather than overtly political. Despite wartime restrictions, the book slowly gained recognition, later becoming a cornerstone of 20th-century literature when translated into English (as The Outsider in Britain and The Stranger in the US). It continues to resonate as a stark meditation on alienation, truthfulness in the face of social convention, and the quiet freedom found in accepting the world’s “gentle indifference.”

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:07

The Stranger by Albert Camus. Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home. Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours. That didn't mean anything. It might have been yesterday. I asked my boss for two days off. He looked annoyed and said it wasn't his fault, but he granted the leave. I caught the two o'clock bus to Marengo. The ride was long, and I slept almost the whole way. When I arrived, the director of the home met me. He was an old man with white hair and a ribbon from the Legion of Honor. He told me my mother had died peacefully that morning. He offered to let me see her body, but it had already been placed in the coffin. I said I would rather not. The director seemed surprised but did not insist. He led me to the mortuary, a small room with whitewashed walls and a skylight. The coffin rested on trestles. The caretaker brought me a chair and asked if I wanted the lid opened. I said no. I sat there for a long time. The caretaker stayed with me. He talked about how my mother had been happy at the home and how the other residents liked her. I smoked cigarettes. He offered me coffee and we drank it together. Later, some old people from the home came in to keep vigil. They sat around the coffin quietly. One old woman cried. The night passed slowly. I dozed off once or twice. In the morning, the funeral took place. The director introduced me to Thomas Perez, an old man who had been very close to my mother. Perez's eyes were red and his hands shook. We followed the hearse on foot to the cemetery. The sun was hot and the walk was long. Perez had trouble keeping up and had to be helped. The countryside looked bright under the glaring light. At the graveside, the priest said a few words. Then it was finished. I shook hands with the director and the caretaker and took the bus back to Algiers. I thought I would sleep well that night. The next day was Saturday. I went swimming at the public beach. The water felt good. While I was drying myself, I saw Marie Cardona, a former typist from my office. She smiled and we talked. She looked pretty in her striped dress. We swam together, then went to a movie in the evening. It was a comedy with Fernandel, and Marie laughed a lot. Afterward, we went back to my apartment. She stayed the night. In the morning, she asked if I loved her. I said no, that it didn't mean anything, but probably not. She looked a little sad, then smiled again. We had breakfast and she left. Monday, I returned to work. My boss was in a good mood. He asked how old my mother had been, and I realized I didn't know exactly. It didn't seem important. The days went by as usual. I ate at Celeste's restaurant, where the owner always greeted me kindly. One evening, my neighbor Raymond since knocked on my door. Raymond was a warehouseman with a bad reputation. People said he lived off women. He invited me in for blood sausage and wine. He told me about his problems with his Arab mistress. He had beaten her because he suspected her of cheating, and now her brother and some friends were after him. Raymond wanted me to write a letter to lure her back. So he could punish her. I had no reason to refuse. I wrote the letter and he was pleased. He said we were pals now. A few days later, Marie came over again. She asked if I wanted to marry her. I said it didn't make any difference to me. But if she wanted to, we could. She asked again if I loved her. I gave the same answer. She said marriage was a serious thing. I told her it wasn't. We laughed. That Sunday, we planned to go to the beach with Raymond. On Sunday, we took the bus to a beach house belonging to one of Raymond's friends, Masan. The sea was bright blue and the sand was hot. We swam, ate lunch and drank wine. In the afternoon, Raymond saw two Arabs on the beach. One was his mistress's brother. There was a fight. Raymond was cut on the arm and face with a knife. We took him back to the house and bandaged him. The police came, and Raymond asked me to testify that the girl had been unfaithful. I agreed. Everything seemed settled. Later that day, the heat grew unbearable. The sun pressed down heavily. Raymond wanted to go back to the beach to find the Arabs again. Masan and I went with him. We walked along the shore. The light glared off the sand and the sea. Raymond carried his revolver. We saw the two Arabs lying near some rocks. One stood up. Raymond reached for his gun, but I told him to give it to me instead. It was too hot to fight. The Arab drew his knife, but then backed away. We returned to the house. I felt dizzy from the sun and the wine. I decided to take a walk alone along the beach. The glare was intense. My head throbbed. I saw the Arab again, the brother, standing in the shade of a rock near a little spring. He didn't move at first. The sun beat down on my forehead, and sweat stung my eyes. The sea and the sand blended in a blinding light. I took a step forward. The Arab drew his knife and held it up. The blade flashed in the light like a long, sharp blade cutting into my eyes. My hand closed on the revolver in my pocket. The trigger gave and the shot rang out. I fired four more times into the motionless body. The shots were like four quick knocks on the door silence. I knew I had destroyed the balance of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I had been happy. Then the police arrived. I was arrested and taken to prison. The days in jail blurred together. My lawyer came to see me. He seemed irritated. He asked why I had sent my mother to the home. I explained that we didn't have much money, and she seemed happier there with people her own age. He asked if I had felt any grief at her death. I said I had probably felt some sorrow, but I wasn't sure. He looked displeased. The examining magistrate questioned me about the murder. I told him it happened because of the sun. He seemed puzzled. He showed me a crucifix and asked if I believed in God. I said no. He became angry and insisted that all men believe in God, even those who turn away from him. I remained silent. The trial took place the following summer. The courtroom was crowded and stifling. Everyone stared at me. The judge, the prosecutor, my lawyer. They all seemed to have already formed opinions about me. The trial quickly moved beyond the murder itself. Witnesses testified. The director of the home, the caretaker, Thomas Perez. They described how I had shown no emotion at the funeral, how I had not cried, how I had smoked cigarettes and drunk coffee beside the coffin, how I had refused to see my mother's body. Marie testified that we had planned to marry, but the prosecutor made it sound cold and calculating. Celeste tried to defend me, saying it was just bad luck and that I was a good man, but his words were twisted. Salomano, my other neighbor, spoke about his dog and how I had been kind to him. But it didn't seem to matter. The prosecutor built his case around my character. He portrayed me as a man without feelings, a criminal at heart who had buried his mother with indifference and then committed murder without remorse. He linked my behavior at the funeral to the crime on the beach, saying I was already guilty in a moral sense before I pulled the trigger. My lawyer argued that the murder was an accident caused by the son and chance, but his defense felt weak against a wave of indignation in the courtroom. The jury listened carefully. I felt distant from it all, as if they were discussing someone else. At the end of the trial, I was found guilty of premeditated murder and sentenced to death by guillotine in the public square. The courtroom erupted with noise. I was led back to my cell. In prison, I waited for the results of my appeal. I sometimes imagined escaping or winning the appeal, but mostly I tried not to think about it. Marie visited once. She smiled bravely and talked about our future together if I was freed. I told her it was hopeless, but she insisted on hoping. The days passed slowly. I grew used to the routine of prison life. One day, the chaplain came to see me, even though I had refused his visits. He was a kind man who wanted to talk about God and repentance. He told me that even the greatest sinners could find mercy if they turned to God. He spoke of my mother and how she must have hoped for me in her final moments. I grew angry. I shouted at him that none of it mattered, that everyone died eventually, and that his God and his promises meant nothing to me. I grabbed him by the collar. The guards came in and pulled us apart. The chaplain left, looking shaken. Alone again in my cell, I thought about my life. I remembered the warm sea, the taste of coffee, Marie's smile, the sound of streets in Algiers, the smell of Celeste's restaurant. All those simple things seemed far away now, yet strangely clear, I realized I had been happy. I had lived exactly as I wanted, without pretending or inventing feelings I did not have. The indifference others condemned me was simply the honest truth of existence. There was no deeper meaning, no higher purpose. Only the gentle indifference of the world. As the time for my execution drew nearer, a strange calm came over me. I opened my heart to the benign indifference of the universe. For the first time, I felt ready. I hoped there would be a large crowd at my execution, and that they would greet me with howls of hatred. In that hatred, I would feel less alone. It would be the only kind of communion left to me.