The Stranger

by Albert Camus

It occurred to me that anyway one more Sunday was over, that Maman was buried now, that I was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed.

Then I fired four more times at the motionless body where the bullets lodged without leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.

I explained to him, however, that my nature was such that my physical needs often got in the way of my feelings.

When I was first imprisoned, the hardest thing was that my thoughts were still those of a free man.

I’d realized that the most important thing was to give the condemned man a chance. Even one in a thousand was good enough to set things right.

Deep down I knew perfectly well that it doesn’t much matter whether you die at thirty or at seventy, since in either case other men and women will naturally go on living—and for thousands of years.

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