I was pouring out on him everything that was in my heart, cries of anger and cries of joy. He seemed so certain about everything, didn't he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman's head. He wasn't even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man.I read The Stranger by Camus while we were in Mexico. I didn't like the writing style as much as The Rebel or The Plague. Chris seems to think my perspective amounts to sacrilege. Everything I've read by Camus so far is stunning. I wish I started reading him sooner.
The Stranger p. 120
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