I went to the bookstore last week to do last minute Christmas shopping. It was just a breeze as I got only one present for my landlady but I stayed there to commune with the books. I can only do as much as the books were too pricey for my pocket. I crave for home everytime I turn over the prices of those books. Nevertheless, browsing through the pages of the books, smelling the pages are still for free, so I indulged on it.
One book caught my attention and it was that of Camus' and the title was "the outsider". I wracked my mind why no one told me about the book as I knew I covered much of his books. As I tried to reach for a copy, I remembered---translation does wonders.... Yeah, it was indeed another version of l'etranger.
I went home grinning like another silly girl. But it made me think--- the title for me is more appropriate. Being an outsider brings you to the innermost core but detaches you at the same time from the sheer reality of it. A stranger is always outside of it. It is never inside... It made people get angry at Meursault and eventually led him behind bars... and death.
Just how at home are people really at their own realities?