I can’t tell if I hate the narrator because he is emotionless or because I see a lot of myself in him. Not so much because of his inability to share feelings or show affection, but his inability at times to feel anything at all. This was my first read in the ‘existentialism’ genre and I have to say: it left me empty but somehow content. I am starting to think that I could not have picked a better time to read such a confusing book. It resembles my life in that sense.
Books | Albert Camus
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