Libro El Extranjero De Albert Camus -

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

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.

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.” libro el extranjero de albert camus

“Would you say you loved your mother?” asked the prosecutor, a man with a velvet voice and a steel soul.

“I have only this life. I am sure of my death, and surer of my indifference. Your certainties are worth less than a woman’s tear. I am a stranger to you, to this world, to your God. But at least I am not a stranger to myself.” He thought of Marie, who would soon find another yes

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.

They did not try him for killing the Arab. They tried him for not crying at his mother’s funeral. One Sunday, the sun was a blade

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

The Day the Sky Went Quiet

“I loved her as much as anyone. But that is not a number.”