
Recent acquisition:
📖 The Stranger by Albert Camus
#FoodandLit This is a book of philosophy and confessions. I don‘t think I was in the right headspace to read about a white, narcissistic, man this week. The writing style felt its 1950‘s. The character is contradictory and I‘ve had enough of that lately but Camus did have several quotes that made me stop and think.
I made Dutch Baby Pancakes and they were delicious. I‘d like to play around with some other flavors and order some stroop syrup 😋
A book about a murder portrayed as meaningless.
The emotional experience Camus delivers by refusing to provide an explanation for the murder perfectly reflects our struggle to cope with the complexities of life and our need to find a reason for evil. (Through the mechanism of projection, we try to locate the cause of evil outside of ourselves to make sense of the complex parts within.)
An emotionally fascinating journey.
Bro is freaky.
Probably his only book I like.
(Those two things are not connected)
“I replied that you could never change your life, that in any case one life was as good as another and that I wasn‘t at all dissatisfied with mine here. He looked upset and told me that I always evaded the question and that I had no ambition, which was disastrous in the business world. So I went back to work.” For me; an example of how Mersault perceives matters important to the rest of Us as almost light breezes in the air, just passing him by.
“I felt like telling her that [mother‘s death] wasn‘t my fault, but I stopped myself because I remembered that it wasn‘t my fault, but I stopped myself because I remembered that I‘d already said that to my boss. It didn‘t mean anything. In any case, you‘re always partly to blame.”
“I remember a few other scenes from that day as well: for instance, Pérez‘s face when he caught up with us for the last time just outside the village. Great tears of frustration and anguish were streaming down his cheeks. But because of all the wrinkles, they didn‘t run off. They just spread out and ran toggether again, forming a watery glaze over his battered old face. Then there was the church and the villagers in the street, the red geraniums..