Literary Works That Shape Our World: A Critical Analysis - Sykalo Evgen 2023

The Absurd Hero: Exploring Meursault's Journey through Alienation and Absurdity (Analysis of “The Stranger” by Albert Camus)

There’s something wildly seductive about Albert Camus’ The Stranger—and no, it’s not just the pretentious glow of having it on your bookshelf. It’s the book’s audacious simplicity, its refusal to play nice. Meursault, our protagonist (or anti-hero? Does he even deserve that title?), is the kind of character who stares life in the face, shrugs, and lights another cigarette. And we follow him, hypnotized, through sun-soaked beaches, courtrooms, and finally, the gallows.

But the thing is—Meursault isn’t really someone you’d want to meet in real life. Imagine being stuck in an Uber with him. He’s the guy who’d answer your “how’s your day?” with an existential monologue, leaving you simultaneously bored and existentially rattled. And yet, he’s unforgettable. He sticks, like sand in your shoes after a day at the beach. Annoying, but somehow comforting.

The Absurd Is a Vibe

Let’s talk about the Absurd. Camus’ whole thing, right? The universe doesn’t care about you. It’s indifferent, random, chaotic. Like, cosmic nihilism—but French. And Meursault? He’s the poster child for this.

Take the funeral scene at the start of the book. Meursault’s mother dies, and he doesn’t cry. Not even a polite sniffle. It’s not that he’s heartless—he’s just not playing by society’s unspoken rules. Wear black, feel sad, say the right things. Instead, he sweats under the Algerian sun and notices the little things: the glare of the light, the shuffling of feet, the clatter of a fan. It's almost cinematic, the way his mind hones in on the tactile details while completely ignoring the emotional gravity.

Reading this, you feel unsettled, maybe even betrayed. Aren’t books supposed to give you someone to root for? But Camus isn’t here to coddle you. He’s holding up a mirror and saying, “This is what life looks like without the fluff.”

The Sun Is a Villain

Speaking of fluff—or the lack of it—The Stranger has this weird, almost adversarial relationship with nature. The sun isn’t a benign background character; it’s actively hostile. During the funeral, it’s oppressive. During the beach scene, it’s downright malicious. And when Meursault commits his crime, it’s like the sun pulls the trigger as much as he does.

This is where Camus flexes his absurdist muscles. The universe doesn’t care about justice or morality—it’s just there, blinding and burning. Meursault doesn’t kill the Arab man out of anger or fear; he does it because the sun won’t stop glaring at him. And yeah, it sounds ridiculous—murder by sunshine—but isn’t that the point? That the "reasons" we cling to are flimsy at best?

A Courtroom, a Circus

Then there’s the trial. God, what a farce. If you’re expecting some grand courtroom drama—think Atticus Finch delivering soul-stirring speeches—you’re in the wrong book. Meursault’s trial isn’t about justice; it’s about punishing him for being different. The prosecutor is less concerned with the murder than with the fact that Meursault didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral.

This part of the book feels eerily relevant in an age of performative morality. Meursault’s crime isn’t just the murder; it’s his refusal to conform. He doesn’t fake grief, doesn’t pretend to care about societal norms, and that makes him dangerous. You can’t trust someone who doesn’t play by the rules.

Death, Acceptance, and Whatever Comes After

The last few pages of The Stranger hit like a gut punch. Meursault, sentenced to death, finally seems... at peace? He accepts the Absurd, embraces the chaos, and finds freedom in knowing life has no inherent meaning.

It’s a weirdly uplifting ending—if you squint. Like, sure, the guy’s about to get guillotined, but he’s okay with it. He’s made peace with the universe’s indifference. And maybe that’s Camus’ gift to us: not answers, but a kind of liberation in letting go of the need for them.

Final (Messy) Thoughts

Here’s the thing about The Stranger: it’s not a book you like. It’s a book you grapple with. It’s frustrating, uncomfortable, sometimes downright infuriating. But that’s also what makes it stick. Meursault isn’t a hero. He’s not even an anti-hero. He’s a guy who exists, who feels the sun on his face, who accepts that life doesn’t owe him anything. And somehow, in that stark, sunlit void, there’s a strange kind of beauty.

Or maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe it’s just a story about a dude who doesn’t cry at funerals. Either way, it’ll mess with your head—and isn’t that the whole point?