The Stranger

All my life, I have digested fiction with some semblance of understanding of premise, synopses, or otherwise far before delving into the containing text. "The Stranger" Is my exception to the rule.

There might be more than decade having passed since I've read a book from start to finish in all of a single day. Yet, an odd series of events, of influences pushed me through it.

The first being a purchase of a Kindle, which, rather then focusing on the page number and simple math to devise how much remains of a story, shows you the percentage of the book you've read. It appealed to the game player in me, attempting to complete this thing, though never finding myself rushing, or skimming through the details set before me.

The second, was that I had known nothing, and continued to know nothing about the story, but what was offered to me by the story itself. It became something of mystery, begging to be solved. I followed the main character as he attended his mothers funeral in almost a haze, and that same cloud seemed to continue throughout his journey as depicted by the author.

I can sympathize with the inability to feel, as of late, having had much difficulty, and spent many hours wondering what emotion was like, how deeply one felt it. Perhaps it is absurd to attempt to recall an emotion, yet somehow following the life of an individual who feels more affected by the weather, then his relationships became something of a train wreck that I couldn't pry my eyes from.

He is a man, seemingly missing a single, yet important aspect of what makes us human and because of that, falls into a series of events that cause his world to unravel. The worst, and most difficult parts are those shining glimmers that yes, inside of him is that piece, but for whatever reason, he constantly pushes it down in favour of a "realistic" view of the situation.

If only, at any point he would have just allowed this little rumblings to take hold, to allow them to express themselves openly, things would have ended up differently for him. In the end, for me it becomes something a warning, and much of an interesting piece of which I care not to read again.

As much as I want to be disgusted with what happened to him, with how he lived his life, or the book in general for creating such a picture. To me, it just is. A interesting book, a mystery now solved. Having been more than a week since I completed it, I can say enjoyed reading it. Not that I would suggest it to anyone else, but at the same time, for me, for that moment, and this point in my life, it was a important piece of literature.