Today I revisited “L’Étranger” by Albert Camus.

Considered a classic of 20th-century literature, The Stranger has received critical acclaim for Camus’ philosophical outlook, absurdism, syntactic structure, and existentialism (despite Camus’s rejection of the label), particularly within its final chapter. Le Monde ranked The Stranger as number one on its 100 Books of the 20th Century. In Le Temps it was voted the third best book written in French in the 20th and 21st century by a jury of 50 literary connoisseurs.

What in particular disturbs me about the novella is not its recommendation of the absurd; nor even its unwitting alliance with the sterile events of the day. No, what disturbs me is its sadness, the regrettable nature of things. The book has been analyzed one thousand times. So I won’t pretend to enlarge.

Generally the day today – while not necessarily sad – was bland. Not the sort of day that encourages a ready smile or a pleasing introspection. Nonetheless – as with any day – one must get moving, do something, be active. For the second morning in a row, we descended to the main floor of the apartment building. There is located the exercise room.

We pedalled on the indoor cycles for almost half an hour. The athletic endeavour was sufficient to expiate any guilt.

So, then what? Well, in my increasingly uncomplicated life, there is a limit to what I willingly undertake to amuse myself.  This may sound to be an odd and unanticipated reservation, but I remind you that when walking is a pain, lots of other things are too.  Shopping for example is right out!  And a stroll about the village?  Not going to happen.

I could go on. But the un-iced rendition is that immobility and old age are determinative. The mixture urges accommodation of necessity. The tiny advantage may be that it enables sweets (that is, the philosophic ambrosia). So I decided to go for a drive.

While I had the luxury of being able to open all the windows, and the Saturday morning traffic seemed quieter than during the week, the day remained featureless. Somehow in the monotony of fussing with the radio I came upon something that inspired me to say “Poetic pictures” to myself.  Suddenly I was yelling at Siri in the dashboard to send me a message.  And it didn’t go well. The third time it made it.

What I could possibly have meant by “Poetic pictures” has now escaped me. The thrust is gone. Though I will confess I am at times prone to the lyrical. I find, too, it helps to contemplate the antithesis of whatever one is pondering – just as a friendly reminder how I got there. But whatever I thought, nothing revitalized the “Poetic pictures” business. I disliked the resemblance to Camus’ world of peculiarity. Perhaps it was more the influence of Salvador Dali.

Whatever the alteration, the day remained as it was; that is, rather flavourless. Nor did it change much thereafter – that is, not until I received a telephone call from Nancy Noodles.

I’m guessing we were blathering over an hour.  Maybe longer. We relived moments of our youth – 56 years ago in beautiful Nova Scotia.  Naturally nothing appears to have changed – ha! Nothing but everything!  No doubt we’re starting to repeat ourselves. But the interlude was a certain refreshment.