After finishing Albert Camus' The Stranger I feel...nonplussed. Whatever Camus' goal was, it was either so insignificant as to slip beneath my radar, or the times have a changed too much for his commentary to strike a chord.
Camus' protagonist (I use the term generously here) drifts through life untouched by everything but his material/physical needs and surroundings. He's attracted to a woman, annoyed by a sound, affected by the heat, disoriented by bright light. He is indifferent towards the people in his life, and ultimately, his own life. Such a dispassionate narrator leads us through a series of bland events until he rather absurdly commits a murder. And the only resonant chord the novel strikes is that his malaise is consistent. He's as unconcerned with the fact that his life will be brought to a sudden end as he was unconcerned with whether he listened to his irritating acquaintance or not.
