My eyes came to rest on the plain, jaded font of the black and white print. The novel was titled The Stranger, and it offered a look at the existential questions I had pondered for many a night. I discovered it in my favorite book store. This particular building was a place in which I met my friend Scott Fitzgerald, thought alongside Hemingway, debated with Zadie Smith, and fell in love with Sylvia Plath. It was a place of wonders that encompassed every feature of my imagination in some way or another. I spent every day there and read my time away, occasionally buying a book.
On this day, one I vaguely remember as being rather tedious, I went in to find something. I trusted the bookstore would put a work of literature in my hand. As always, it didn’t fail me. The novel was black and white on the outside. It was relatively short, so I knew it would take me less than a couple hours. My dad was at the sports store next door and I knew I had time. I threw open the page. It started slow. A funeral. Love making. A boat. A trip. Next thing you know, a murder. Following that, a trial. Afterwards an execution we can only imagine. The closing words are something I read repeatedly until they come to me faster than my name or social security number ever will. The inscription that etched itself into my head was thus:
“For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.”
Bah! It still sends shivers down my spine. Thirty-eight words that can chill me when I see them combined. 187 characters that make me dream, philosophize, think, and yearn. I read this novel expecting a quick, simple story, but instead received a gift. The gift wasn’t anything physical. In fact, I didn’t even buy a copy of the novel until several weeks later. What it gave me was freedom of thought.
I was raised in a supremely conservative and, in turn, extraordinarily Christian- Pentecostal to be specific- house in a rural Tennessee town. I was taught to think one way, and led to believe anyone who disagreed was wrong. The Stranger was my first look at an alternative viewpoint. It allowed me to look outside of my box and see the whole world in a different light. The work of art in question gave me an existential crisis, and I credit it with being my gateway into Nietzsche, Bukowski, and all other forms of angst.
It is rare that a work enters one’s life and shatters everything. It is rare that a work changes all held opinions and opens Pandora’s box. After reading The Stranger, my life was forever altered. I hold strong to the idea that it has led to groundbreaking personal development. When I look internally, I see Camus’ brush strokes on the canvas of my mind. I see the vibrant blues, the dull grays, and the brilliant flaming red that the novel holds. The book paints a picture that seems to work as a piece of abstract art. Something Mark Rothko or Barnett Newman would paint. It gives you a sense of texture and divine taste. Consuming this work was a religious experience.
