The Outsider by Albert Camus

I just completed reading The Outsider by Albert Camus (also known as The Stranger). Reading it felt like walking amidst a scene in an impressionist painting. Finishing it, one is left with a slightly blurred picture of a life that is bleak yet nostalgic, emotionally distant yet resoundingly poignant.

One feels as much “an Outsider” to the book as the protagonist does to his own life.

Some highlights:

• I learned a new word: “lading”: to put cargo onboard a ship.
• I was initially surprised to see wine at lunch on a work day, but I suppose that is quintessentially French…
• It was delightful to see mentions of trams everywhere! What a halcyon construction of bygone days.

Despite the surrealism, everything feels strangely real. The first-person voice and inner monologue makes everything feel in equal parts clear and blurry. I don’t know how much the various English translations differ, but this edition felt super crisp and readable. I was expecting it to be a more ponderous read, but the language was fresh and crisp.

Reading it in the autumn made me think

Existentialism is to falling leaves as a book is to trees.
Both are susurrations of impermanence; one traces the shedding of meaning, the other preserves.
What is lost and what remains.

Update 9 August 2026: There’s an interesting piece by the translator, Sandra Smith, on The Guardian.