Mrs. Beard
AP English IV – 7
23 April 2012
Mirage
The smoldering sun glares down upon the glimmering sands, roasting the tiny pebbles,
bending the air into fantastic shapes of translucent imagination. The roaring heat is inescapable,
the rasping thirst unquenchable, yet the desperate search for absolution goes on. This hell of hot
emptiness haunts the stark pages of Albert Camus’ The Stranger, alternately taunting and
pleading. The slim novel, comprised of less than one hundred and fifty pages, seizes its reader
and throws him into its desert, swallowing all order in the process, as it seeks to embody that
which it describes.As the pages fly by, a nagging nervousness creeps into the consciousness. The
frustration builds. The understanding strains. The result? Nothing. This is Camus’ success.
Through his medium he epitomizes his message and drives it home with the full force of a
gusting sandstorm. To explain the absurd is quite absurd within itself, thus what better way to
portray the absurd than by unleashing its absurdity. What an absurd sentence. Yet it sums up
Camus’ beginning argument quite nicely. Ironically, any interpretation of The Stranger is absurd
as well, but of course this is precisely the point, because, to Camus, absurdity is exactly that –
just the beginning, the absurd beginning of truth under a blistering sun. This truth is traced
throughout the novel with Camus’ protagonist, Monsieur Meursault, whose absolute void sends
both he and the reader hurtling through the pitiless cosmos into aliberating consciousness of
oblivion.
Any discussion of absurdity, whether from the beginning or the end, first requires a
definite definition of the term, a kind of roughly hewn picture frame that allows for a glimpse
through misted glass into the sheer abyss. The word abyss, as it is used here, is not to be viewed
as an overdramatic association, but as an essential hint, a visualization of what is lost when a
nauseating, icy-sweat-inducing feeling is reduced to a mere phrase. Jean-Paul Sartre illuminates
this hair-thin, yet vitally important dissonance between an idea and its mood as he quotes Camus:
Deep feelings, like great works, are always more meaningful than they are aware
of being…An intense feeling carries with it its own universe, magnificent or
wretched, as the case may be…The feeling of the absurd is not the same as the
idea of the absurd. The idea is grounded in the feeling, that is all. It does not
exhaust it. (Sartre 2)
Sartre goes on to confirm his colleague’s statement by admitting that The Stranger “plunges us
without comment into the ‘climate’ of the absurd” (Sartre 2). Similarly, the absurd is the abovementioned abyss that the unsuspecting mind must plunge into. While critics seek to define the
absurd through fanciful umbrella-phrases such as Justin O’Brien’s interminably struggling man
“caught between his infinite aspirations and his finite possibilities”, the artists fill their palette
with the paint of emotion (Matuz 102). This paint oozes along the ragged cliffs of the absurd
abyss, deeper and deeper, penetrating to the very core of the mind. Yet, precisely when the
breaking point seems to have been reached, and the pressure of the millions of earthy tons
threatens to shatter the mind into myriads of glimmering neurons, the inner eye is blinded. Not
by pain. Not by despair. But by light. White light, burning light, pure light. Brilliant sunlight.
The existence of this light, entirely unexpected, entirely unprecedented, entirely illogical,
completes the absurd. The journey through the abyss of nothingness, as Camus argues, must
culminate and transcend this light of realization in order to embody and ultimately bask in the
glory of its radiance. Quite the picture frame.
The wayward voyager Camus presents seems to be nothing more and nothing less than
the bland, “amoral protagonist” of the label-friendly critics (Matuz 101). Sartre continually refers
to the novel as “The Outsider” instead of The Stranger,and to the reader, this appears to be a
rather more accurate description of the main character (Sartre 1).Caught up only in the physical
desires of hunger, thirst, and lust, Meursault floats through his days, blurring them into a creamy
white canvas in his mind on which nuances appear as splotchy red stains. Camus mirrors this
sensation within the novel as he intentionally splashes the empty pages with short, direct
sentences and concrete diction. The opening line contains three words that seem to be merely
thrown together by chance, much like an arbitrary hand of cards. “Maman died today” (Camus3).
There is no emotion. No passion. No sobbing undertone. The sentence is dry to the bone. Just
another splotchy stain.When asked why he never visits his aging mother, Monsieur Meursault
replies that it would “take up [his] Sunday – not to mention the trouble of getting to the bus,
buying tickets, and spending two hours traveling” (Camus 5). Obviously such trifles are much
more important than any attachment he may feel towards his mother, and that is precisely the
point. Camus has created a man who is entirely unable to advance beyond the mereelementary
stages of human relationships because he does not have the capability to feel deeply. This
contrast is particularly eminent when viewed through the lens of his deceased mother’s lover,
Monsieur Pérez, whose “big tears of frustration [are] streaming down his face…spread[ing] out
and run[ning] together again, leaving a watery film over his ruined face” while Meursault stands
nearby, completely caught up in an empty, scorching sun (Camus 18).
There is no doubt that Meursault’s soul contains the essence of nothingness, yet the
intricacies this implies make his state of mind all too valuable in light of his surroundings. When
Meursault strikes up a peculiar friendship with his infamous neighbor Raymond Sintés, whose
reputation for sexual exploits is well known around the community, the reader’s eyebrows are
quickly raised. The rustling of the pages is transformed into suspicious whispers. What a
scandal!Snigger the appalled glances. Yet Meursault enters the lair, sitting down for some blood
sausage and wine, apparently quite oblivious to the uproar he has created. Critic Barton Palmer
points out that Meursault’s account is somewhat of a “diary style” filter for the “raw data” of his
experiences (Palmer 60). His tale is therefore simply a straightforward list of facts, an account of
what happened and how it happened, entirely deficient of authorial bias. Or so Camus hopes.
Either way, it is this complete objectivity that allows Meursault to befriend Raymond as he
listens to the slimy man’s tales thinking only, “It was true and I agreed” (Camus 29). The nature
of Raymond’s gruesome tale has no effect upon Meursault due to his previously established
inability to embrace empathy, passion, and overall emotion; to Meursault there is no gruesome
sentiment. Because he cannot experience it and cannot imagine it, it never even existed.He
accepts realities because they are the truth, reacting to them only in the sense that he
acknowledges them. This component of truth is critical in laying the foundation of the absurd for
it is vital to understand that at this point in his journey, Meursault may appear to be an outcast,
but as Palmer states he “is hardly a stranger to society” (Palmer 60). His adherence to basic
social expectations of employment, living space, and human interaction solidifies this. Meursault
lives in nothingness, in objectivity, in truth, but he is still a stranger to this and therefore to
himself, unconscious of the stark absurdity of life.
The theatrical climax to Meursault’s unconscious absurdityerupts on the smoldering
shores of the Mediterranean, among the shattering “cymbals of sunlight”, culminating in a
bubble of hot blood as his five shots tear through the glaring visage of the sun(Camus 59). The
murder is motiveless. Pointless. Passionless. Actually, there could not be less to say about it. As
soon as one begins to attribute meaning to it, one falls into the trap Camus has set. The trap that
Patrick Moser defines as “mankind’s inherent desire to seek out meaning” (Moser 3). The trap
that is the abyss of absurdity. Sweat drips out of the murderer’s pores melting into the sea salt
still clinging to his wet hair, combining the elements that make up his name: “mer mean[ing] sea;
sol mean[ing] sun” (Moser 3). The mixture that forced him to kill the Arab. The fusion that from
then on defines him. It is a name, and names are classifications given by humans in an attempt to
attribute order and meaning to the universe. It is a warning that Meursault’s nothingness is about
to be invaded by the probing hands of society.Camus composed a counterpart to The Stranger in
which he focuses on a retelling of the Greek myth of Sisyphus, the mortal who dared to defy the
gods and was banished to “futile and hopeless labor” for eternity (Camus 119). It serves as both a
clarification and commentary,providing the complementary idea to the feeling, on Meursault’s
journeythat essentially begins the moment he pulls the trigger. Up until this very moment,
Meursault’s abnormality has slipped beneath the radar, unnoticed and invisible, allowing him to
be unconscious of his absurdity. Yet,as surely as Meursault’s revolver “shatters the silence of the
day”, it shatters Meursault himself (Moser 3). His unconscious that is. This is the beginning of
Part II, the part in which Meursault becomes Sisyphus, the part in which humanity becomes the
perpetrator.
Up until now the reader has had quite a tumultuous relationship with the ambiguous main
character, trying to understand him only to be frustrated into sheer annoyance at his lack of
affability. No, Monsieur Meursault will not be invited to the annual neighborhood soiree, I’m
sure you understand. Yet this perspective changes in a heartbeat, well the extinguishing of one
actually, as the reader becomes the silent judge in what proves to be the ultimate display of
human absurdity. The tide begins to turn against the accused even before he enters the
courtroom. Meursault immediately notices that his lack of conscience makes his lawyer “feel
uncomfortable” while completely alienating the magistrate who bitterly rechristens him
“Monsieur Antichrist” (Camus 66,71). Besides being quite the serious accusation, this is also an
allusion to the controversial writings of Camus’ predecessor, Friedrich Nietzsche whose
infamous book The Antichrist loudly accompanies his claim that ‘God is dead’. Talk about a
slanted situation. By pinpointing the idea of mythos, “a connection between character and motive
and between motive and action,” Barton Palmer unveils the essential element that the jury cannot
find in Meursault’s testimony (Palmer 61). It is honest. To the point. Meursault is the
embodiment of truth, remember? But his words make no sense to his audience. There is no web
of nerves to illuminate a coherent path among which flashing neurons of truth may travel. So the
befuddled citizens turn to the guiding hand of the prosecution to explain this abnormality of a
man to them, and this is the point where the reader’s focus shifts. The eerie feeling that had
previously been emanating from the disturbing idea of Meursault drifts, mutating into the
reader’s stunned outrage as society begins to twist its interpretation of the facts. Not the facts
themselves, mind. These are inalterable. No, humanity simply begins to do what it does best –
intervene.
The traditional trial scene is one of prosecution versus defense. The prosecution must
prosecute and the defense must defend. Purposeful redundancy is necessary here for ultra-clarity,
since there must be no doubt that these two parties are enemies within the battleground of the
courtroom. Meursault, being the constant observer that he is, quickly picks up ona “strange
impression…of being the odd man out, a kind of intruder” (Camus 84) among the civil
proceedings. His intuition is absolutely correct, for as the reader continues through the trial, it
becomes apparent that the entire scenario is completely absurd. The discussion mutates into an
acid judgment of Meursault. The prosecution digs deeper and deeper into the soft flesh of
memory with each appointed witness, unearthing all the solid facts about Meursault and branding
their objectivity with society’s searing judgments until Meursault’s sobbing lover collapses,
wailing that “it wasn’t like that, there was more to it, and that she was being made to say the
opposite of what she was thinking” (Camus 94). The reader finds himself weeping with her at the
madness that nothingness has unleashed, as he rises, throwing the book aside, to point an all
cursing finger at the coalition of prosecution and defense that has left the actual crime far behind
on the sizzling sands of the sea. Sartre laments this “absurd justice, incapable of ever
understanding or even making contact with the deed it intends to punish”, while the mad world
continues to press its red hot iron into the tender skin of truth (Sartre 3). The moment the focus
shifts away from the actual crime, the moment the barrier melts between the defense and the
prosecution, even before the moment that the jury pronounces him guilty, the shattering of the
Meursault’s unconscious bliss,that had begun on the shores of the Mediterranean, is complete
and his absurd existence must bubble to the surface – “something had changed…as if familiar
paths traced in summer skies could lead as easily to prison as to the sleep of the innocent”
(Camus 97).
Meursault has now finally reached the ultimate pressure point. He is one with Sisyphus,
lost in that void of the absurd abyss. Sisyphus, whose tragedy lies in his “hour of consciousness”
(Camus 121). The hour that Meursault must now face as “a dark wind…rising toward[s] [him]
from somewhere deep in [his] future” (Camus 121). It is the wind of death. The court has, of
course, called for the ultimate penalty for his crime, and the madness coalition is only too happy
to oblige. Through the absurdity of it all, Camus has written Meursault into the burning face of
its truth, and now the murderer shall become the murdered. It could be argued that the entire
novel is a suicide note, for what purpose is there to a life of bland emptiness? Meursault may not
have consciously signed his own death warrant, but in a macro view, the slaughter of the Arab
could quite easilyhave been his subconscious acknowledging his absurd existence and deeming it
unworthy of the gift of life. Under such grim light, his execution is the culmination of a plan that
had always been inescapable. Camus himself validates this as a possible hypothesis in his
preface to The Myth of Sisyphus proclaiming, “it is legitimate to meet the problem of suicide face
to face” (Camus 1). The noose is taut, the gallows sturdy, the executioner crosses himself. And
thus one leaves Meursault to face this ultimate goal, the ending of an existence in which
“nothing, nothing mattered”, as he is greeted with jeering “cries of hate” (Camus 121,123).
But wait. Wait! No. This cannot be the end. What about the white light? The brilliant
sunlight at the end of the abyss? Camus runs his hands through his dark hair anxiously, his lips
pinched, his eyes squeezed shut. Pen poised. Meursault stares into the face of the chaplain, the
night before his death, contemplating the acquiescence that would mean his spiritual suicide.
“Then, I don’t know why, but something inside me snapped” (Camus 120). Camus’ eyes flash
open. Meursault launches himself at the chaplain. The pen flies. The mind is free. Barton Palmer
concludes “that only in the shadow of annihilation can man discover his freedom, his passion,
and, most of all, the grandeur of self-possession” (Palmer 61). In this final scene of the novel
Camus is both Meursault and SisyphusasMeursault faces the twin deaths of mind and body. The
circumstances are finally right and the white light erupts in torrents of sparkling “signs and stars”
showering the sky of that “sleeping summer” night (Camus 122). In the face of nihilism
Meursault has found transcendence. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy” because “each atom of
that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world”(Camus 123).
This world is all his own, and it is impossible to wrench Camus from its grandeur of liberation,
the liberation that he found in its creation. Camus, Meursault, Sisyphus… they are all used
interchangeably here because they have all reached that precipice of oblivion within the light.
They stand upon a cliff jutting out above a sea, a sea awash in the refulgent rays of the morning
sun, dazzling so brilliantly as to forever blind the physical eye. But that does not matter. The
inner eye gazes directly into the tycoon of sunlight, embracing its new birth, welcoming the
invincible summer.
Works Cited
“Albert Camus (1913-1960).” Contemporary Literary Criticism. Ed. Roger Matuz, Cathy Falk,
and Mary K. Gillis. Vol. 63. Detroit: Gale Research, 1991. 58-59. Literature Criticism
Online. Gale. ATASCOCITA HIGH SCHOOL. 26 February 2012.
Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. Trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Vintage International,
1991. Print.
Camus, Albert. The Stranger. Trans. Matthew Ward. New York: Vintage International, 1989.
Print.
Moser, Patrick. “The Stranger.” Novels for Students. Ed. Marie Rose Napierkowski and Deborah
A. Stanley. Vol. 6. Detroit: Gale, 1999. 276-296. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Web.
24 Feb. 2012.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. “Camus’ The Outsider.” In Literary and Philosophical Essays, trans. Annette
Michelson, 26-44. New York: Criterion, 1955. Rpt. in Bloom, Harold, ed. Alienation,
Bloom’s Literary Themes. New York: Chelsea House, 2009. Blooms Literary Reference
Online. Facts On File, Inc. 17 March 2012.
“The Stranger by Albert Camus.” Contemporary Literary Criticism. Ed. Roger Matuz, Cathy
Falk, and Sean R. Pollock. Vol. 69. Detroit: Gale Research, 1992. 101-142. Literature
Criticism Online. Gale. ATASCOCITA HIGH SCHOOL. 26. February 2012.