I have read and taught The Stranger many times. I read it in high school, and I read it again before my French exam, and I have taught it a few times since. I still struggle with it; I have never left satisfied that I had a good grip on it. The Myth of Sisyphus, which Camus wrote at the same time as The Stranger, almost feels like a distraction—it is hard to reconcile the heroic figure of Sisyphus happily accepting his ineluctable fate with the troubling enigma of Meursault, a murderer who never seems to understand his own motives and commits inexplicable violence without a conscience. Sisyphus finds purpose in his misfortune, constantly pushing a boulder up a mountain, but Meursault, sitting in prison after murdering an Arab man, just accepts the "tender indifference of the world". It almost feels like a trap, as if Camus is misdirecting readers to search for some metaphysical lesson in The Stranger, blinding us to the racial violence at the core of the text. There are obvious parallels: Sisyphus and Meursault both live in an absurd world; Sisyphus and Meursault are punished (rightly or wrongly) by an absurd theocratic judicial system. But Meursault is so contemptibly amoral—not a paragon of humanistic values in the face of an indifferent cosmos. I would much prefer to teach The Plague, which offers a clear portrait of humanitarian virtue (a doctor who thinks rationally and rallies the community when a senseless epidemic wipes through the town); I could teach The Fall as a satire of existentialist nihilism. The Stranger is intractably weird. Am I meant to condemn Meursault, or sympathize with him, or both?
Biographical criticism is generally a disfavored way of entering into a novel—read the text closely, don't look for clues in the author's life—but Alice Kaplan's book opens up many insightful ways into the novel. I didn't know, for example, that Camus wrote his masters thesis on Saint Augustine; I didn't know that the courthouse, where he listened to and reported on murder trials, stood behind the Église Saint-Augustin; I didn't know that, much like Meursault in The Stranger, St Augustine also didn't cry at his mother's funeral and that, shortly after praying at her vigil, he went to the baths to ease his grief (importantly, Augustine believes that a faithful, rational Christian shouldn't cry, knowing that the deceased will enjoy eternal salvation). This opened up for me a totally new way into Camus' novel: it's an inversion of St Augustine's Confessions. Whereas St Augustine wrote, in fervent and hymnic prayer, about his story of conversion, lamenting his foolish youth and foolhardy adulthood, Meursault's own first-person account is a kind of anti-confession; he never seems to feel anything (except briefly when he remembers his mother for a brief moment); he never seeks refuge; he feels none of the great angst that Augustine felt; there's little introspection. Augustine celebrates the discovery of faith; The Stranger mocks the priest and the judge who desperately plead with Meursault to find God.
I also didn't know that, before writing The Stranger, Camus wrote a primordial version of the story: A Happy Death, a novel about a man named Patrice Mersault (note only one u) who murders a wealthy paraplegic man, steals his money, and dies happy by the sea. His teacher and mentor, Jean Grenier, so firmly excoriated the novel that Camus abandoned it—but he obviously reworked much of it. He kept many details from A Happy Death, its protagonist, an indifferent, passionless killer who, also like Meursault, understands neither love nor remorse. But what Camus learned is that such a cut-throat amoralist could not be written with any sentimental writing or philosophical self-justification; the novelist has to pare back and say less. Out of nowhere, some time later, Camus wrote in his journal one day: "Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: "Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours." That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday." Years before finishing the novel, he had found the exact words to open it: those grimly sparse sentences, the confused chronology (was it today? was it yesterday?), the non-sequitur that raises more questions ("that doesn't mean anything"—what doesn't mean what?). But it's not just Meusault who is perplexing. The language of the telegram (a textual medium that, like the novel itself, cuts and condenses words and grammar) is callously curt. In those first sentences, Camus invented a whole new style of writing.
Camus' Stranger is sometimes derided as "Hemingway writing Kafka" but I also didn't know that Camus was deeply influenced by The Postman Always Rings Twice—the story of a hireling at a gas station in Hollywood who has an affair with his boss's wife. He simply calls his boss "the Greek" (much like Meursault only refers to his victim as "the Arab") and he and his adulterous mistress soon plot to kill their Greek third-wheel. Camus' novel has none of the same salacious scandal (there's nothing raunchy about Meursault—he describes Marie as a good lay and fantasizes about women in prison but he's not motivated by romantic passion). Nothing about Meursault is premeditated. What Camus learned from American fiction was to write his absurdism in familiar language—to test high-minded theory in down-and-out desperados. The Stranger is so startling because its language has nothing in common with Camus' essay The Myth of Sisyphus. There's no erudition, no pyrotechnics, no grand pronouncements. It's a slack-jawed confession.
I think I will continue to struggle to come up with a thesis for The Stranger but Kaplan's literary history of the novel offers some way to make sense of all its most puzzling elements. Well-researched and accessible.