On the final night, the chaplain burst in. “Your heart is stone! You will face death. You must turn to God!”
They did not try him for killing the Arab. They tried him for not crying at his mother’s funeral. 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. On the final night, the chaplain burst in
He returned to Algiers. Went to the beach. Saw a film with Marie, a former typist who laughed at his silences. She asked if he loved her. He said the words had no meaning, but probably not. She asked if he would marry her. He said yes, if she wanted. It made no difference. You must turn to God
He did not run. He stood in the heat and thought: It’s finished.
He opened his mouth to the dawn.
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.