Today I finished reading "The Stranger" by Albert Camus. Not, mind you, because I was feeling literary minded; no, I read it simply because it was read that or finish picking through the left overs in the Reader's Digest Condensed Book, or one of my husband's mechanical digest magazines that he keeps in the bathroom for prolonged stays.
I choose Camus. At first I liked him; he had that deceptively simple language and unmistakably male voice that reminds me of Hemingway (and again, here I must say that I haven't read a great deal of his, and I vividly remember hating "The Old Man and the Sea" when forced to read it in school-that poor old man! But I love his Islands in the Sun, I love his descriptions of the young boys, of the food and most of all, of that alcoholic drink that his character is always mixing.)
In anycase, soon I was extremely disliking The Stranger, mostly because he goes on to whine about the fact that he was found guilty because he didn't cry at his mother's funeral. Actually, he was guilty because he shot a man, and as far as I can see, he shot the man because in a single moment he realized he had a choice, to shoot or not to shoot, and he wanted to shoot, so he went back and did so. And all that blather about the sun in his eyes and the heat, while excellent descriptive writing, is no excuse.
But who am I to say? And perhaps the reason that it made me feel so intensely is the reason it's considered such great literature. Maybe it's better in its native language; maybe JLC has read it in French?
Wha ha! I have figured out linking! And now I'm embarrassed because it was ridiculously easy.
I have been thinking a lot about .becca.'s Would You Rather? Tuesday question, and after much deliberation, I think I would prefer to have a magnetic head to being forced at threat of a slap, to preface everything I said with, "Tuck it in." After all, a magnetic head might come in handy finding loose change, scissors, that sort of thing and the worst that I can imagine happening to me is that my head would become stuck at an awkward angle to my car door before I could wrench it loose.
And, in case you can't tell already, I am still not sleeping. I lay awake last night, my head dizzy and swimming with exhaustion, and still unable to sleep.
"You need a warm, hairy back to snuggle up to," said a dear old lady and good friend of mine, yesterday, and it was so unexpected that I burst out laughing.
Last night I was caught in the irresitible tractor beam of the double yellow arch and ordered a Big Mac. The smell of the fries then tortured me the entire rest of the way home, where I inhaled everything. I hope this does not become a habit.
This morning I looked through the sliding glass doors to the deck, and saw the snow had melted off the chair and foot stool waiting there, both of them caught in the sun.
It's a whole different thing, waiting for summer and deployment's end at the same time. Now if only I can stay alert enough at work. One more day, one more day...
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