Libro El Extranjero De Albert Camus -

When his mother died at the Marengo nursing home, he noted the date—today, or yesterday, perhaps—and took the two o’clock bus. The countryside was a green and gold blur. He liked that. No need to name the trees. They just were .

Meursault grabbed him by the cassock. For the first time, he shouted.

At the wake, the caretaker offered coffee and offered to open the coffin. “No,” Meursault said. Not from fear. From a lack of need. The dead are dead. Looking at her face would not bring her back; it would only make the living uncomfortable. He smoked a cigarette, drank a café au lait, and watched the old people weep. Their tears felt like rain on a window he was sitting behind.

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. libro el extranjero de albert camus

He felt the world’s tender indifference wash over him. It was like a mother. Quiet. Vast. Asking nothing.

The funeral procession climbed a sun-scorched hill. Meursault felt the heat first as an assault, then as a fact. He thought: Maman is now ash-colored earth. Good. She hated the wind.

The Arab was lying on the shore. A shimmer of water, a slash of shadow. Meursault took a step forward. The sun hit him like a long, silent scream. The trigger gave way like a sigh. When his mother died at the Marengo nursing

The chaplain came three times. Each time, Meursault refused. He did not believe in God. Not with rebellion. Not with anguish. Simply: the idea never touched him. Like believing in a fifth season.

He thought of Marie, who would soon find another yes. Of Salamano, who lost his dog. Of the Arab, whose name he never learned.

The prosecutor rose. “Gentlemen of the jury, a man who buries his mother with a hollow heart—then kills a man in cold blood—is a monster not of passion, but of absence. He has no soul. He has no place among the living.” No need to name the trees

Meursault was not a cruel man. He was simply a man who forgot to perform grief.

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.