I'm a fleabit peanut monkey

Albert Camus's The Stranger was amazing the first time I read it, during sophomore year, but the second time around it's exceptionally.. exceptional!

Reading it now, I'm seeing and feeling things I don't think I could have when I was 15. Perhaps it's because of my experiences. In fact, it is. My belief is that everyone is Meursault at one point or another. A lot of literature is dedicated to the freeing of emotions and the resistance to suppression. This is almost the opposite in that it expresses the sheer FACT that false emotions can also be created, pulled out of thin air. That's the way I see it at least. Especially because I've felt that way so many times in the past 2 years. To fabrciate emotion simply feels.. absurd!

The fundamental difference between myself and Camus is that I'm Catholic. Maybe a cafeteria Catholic like my sister always said. Within my beliefs there are certain dichotomies, as with much else in my life. I believe in an afterlife, and I believe in heaven; it's the way I was raised and at the present time I don't think that's going to change. I'm not as vocal about my religion as I am with, well, everything else, but I am firm in my beliefs. At the same time, though, I want to live my life to the fullest. As is clearly displayed in various situations which have occurred in recent years!

I don't believe man is absent from true emotion. I feel and I know what I feel. I just think sometimes emotions are so strained to the point of being ineffective or.. nothing. Maybe what Camus really meant was that you should follow your heart..? Probably not, but that's what I mean, I'm pretty sure.

Sometimes you feel, sometimes you don't. Almost everyone is familiar with that numbness from within. Sometimes sadness--or even happiness--are so great that they explode within us and leave us without any feeling at all. I HATE simulating emotions! I feel like I'm prostituting my heart. It's usually done only to appease the desires of others, but I'm the one who's left behind.

A lot of my time in the past few years has been occupied by trying, so hard, to figure out how I feel--to figure out what to do, and to figure out what I really want. Now is a perfect example. One guy's here and convenient and familiar; another is far and a breath of fresh air and new. I can't figure out what I want. Maybe I want both; maybe I don't want either! Instead of sitting around racking my brain for answers, why not live and allow the answer to present itself?

Another recent example that strikes a note in my brain is what happened in July: My grandfather, who had been mostly unintelligible to me my whole life [partly due to his age, partly due to his heavy Spanish accent] passed away. I loved my grandfather. I'd just discovered some things he'd done in the past that he wasn't too proud of, and I'd never been close to him at all, but I loved him nonetheless. In any case, I didn't shed a tear. I was sad, but I guess.. I wasn't that sad. Later in the month, my golden labrador-retriever Junior, who I'd been friends with since I was five years old and had spent hundreds of happy hours with, also passed away. I was inconsolable for days. I know other people have felt the same way, especially people my age; a distant uncle of theirs dies and their family expects them to remain in a state of mourning for a certain period of time--and to feel not only a sense of respect but unmerited grief. Should we be ashamed? Some of society says yes; Camus says absolutely not.

What I can't understand is why some of Camus's novels are referred to as having "existential" themes. Um, are you kidding me?! Camus's philosophies seem the OPPOSITE of existentialism. His thoughts are more in league with.. I dunno, '80s hair metal bands! Not even kidding.

I was originally considering turning in a pristine version of the literary analysis I'd written as a sophomore. The thesis was something like "Sometimes, crimes just occur." That was fine for then. But with the progression of my life and the circumstances I've found myself in, I can see something completely different now. Perhaps in two more years I'll read it again, my slate clean of preconceived notions because I'll have lived a little more. I'm sure I'll have another Meursault moment or two, and Camus's ideals will be validated ten-thousandfold.

... (: