It’s not particular with me to read a classic story from an unknown author. So far the only classic that I’ve liked before reading Albert Camus is Mary Shelley. But then everyone must try other things than what they are comfortable of to know what do they really want and what do they really don’t want. So I tried.
The first judgment I do with the book is how it will hook me with its first line – or first paragraph, or first chapter. The more straightforward the better. (But I exempt Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go which I will discuss some time). So reading the first lines of this book didn’t fail me.
I finished this with so much things to think about. Things that I did and what the character did that was wrong. Or the definition of wrong things itself made me contemplate. I guess, overall this isn’t my read, and many out there also will think more than twice reading this, but as for me it never failed to give the satisfaction of reading books that I don’t think I will be reading. There’s a reason this book is still making a fuss.
The first book that I’ve read about existentialism.