His neighbor, Salamano, beat his mangy dog. Another neighbor, Raymond, a pimp with a greased mustache, called Meursault “a pal.” Meursault didn’t feel friendship. He felt Raymond was there, and then not there. Still, he wrote a letter for Raymond to lure a woman to be beaten. Why? Because Raymond asked. Because the afternoon was hot. Because saying no would have required a reason.
The courtroom laughed. He did not understand why. libro el extranjero de albert camus
The director of the home testified: Meursault drank coffee, smoked, did not weep. The caretaker confirmed: He did not want to see the body. Marie testified: “He was kind. But when I asked if he loved me, he said it didn’t matter.” His neighbor, Salamano, beat his mangy dog
Meursault was not a cruel man. He was simply a man who forgot to perform grief. Still, he wrote a letter for Raymond to
One Sunday, the sun was a blade. Raymond’s Arab mistress’s brother followed them to a spring by the beach. He drew a knife. It glittered. Meursault held Raymond’s revolver. The heat pressed down—a silent, heavy lid. The sea gasped. The sand burned through his soles.
He pushed the priest away. Fell back on the cot. The sky outside his cell window was black, then violet, then the thinnest line of orange.
One shot. Then four more, after a pause, into the inert body.