Just finished The Outsider by Albert Camus (also known as The Stranger). Reading it felt like walking through an impressionist painting. Finishing it, one is left with a slightly blurred picture of a life — bleak yet nostalgic, emotionally distant yet resoundingly poignant.

One feels as much an Outsider to the book as the protagonist himself.

Some highlights:

• New word learnt: “lading”: put cargo onboard a ship
• Wine with lunch! How quintessentially French…
• Trams everywhere! A halcyon stalwart construction of bygone days

Despite the surrealism, everything feels strangely real - detached, yet vivid. 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 langauge 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.