The Stranger

by Albert Camus

When I was a student, I had lots of ambitions like that. But when I had to give up my studies I learned very quickly that none of it really mattered.

I probably did love Maman, but that didn’t mean anything. At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones were dead.

My fate was being decided without anyone so much as asking my opinion. There were times when I felt like breaking in on all of them and saying, “Wait a minute! Who’s the accused here? Being the accused counts for something. And I have something to say!” But on second thought, I didn’t have anything to say. Besides, I have to admit that whatever interest you can get people to take in you doesn’t last very long.

I had never been able to truly feel remorse for anything. My mind was always on what was coming next, today or tomorrow.

But now I understood, it was perfectly normal. How had I not seen that there was nothing more important than an execution, and that when you come right down to it, it was the only thing a man could truly be interested in?

chance the blade failed, they would just start over. So the thing that bothered me most was that the condemned man had to hope the machine would work the first time. And I say that’s wrong.

Since we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and how don’t matter.

I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.