Albert Camus
Lo Straniero

"I hope the dogs won't bark tonight. I always seem to hear mine."

But they did bark, old Salamano. The howls tore the sky apart, opened it, and something fell from the sky. Not a rain of fire, not biblical pleasantries. 

Memories came out. Memories, old Salamano, memories. Do you remember? Your sick dog, crusted and with damaged and falling fur. The one that got away from you. The one you quarreled with, because it was a damned nuisance, was in pieces, and still pulled so hard on the leash it made you fall on the sidewalk. It ran away from you.

The one that kept you company, the only proof that you could be connected to someone, on this Earth. To something.

Odi et amo. Now you can only remember, old Salamano, not only your wife but also your dog. Do you hear the dogs opening the sky? 

Sounds that pierce the silence, here's where the key is. Deafening noises, breaking the flat daily routine. 

Meursault, you are the key. Old Salamano is lost in his memories. Now it is only silence. You, Meursault, are noise. The noise of four gunshots. The gun that freed you, like a release valve of nature. Do you remember how hot it was that day. It was oppressive, nature, society, life. You felt it, on the beach, the sand burning under your feet, the sun weighing down on your shoulders, with its volumetric heat. The seagulls screeching, the sea clashing with the beach and the rocks, crashing noisily, the Arab's eyes, the knife's reflection, light burning your eyes, the immobility and dynamism, the dynamic noise of the usual natural mechanism repeating itself, the sweat running down your face, the gun heavy in your hand, the Arab, you, the sun, the knife, the gun, the eyes, the sand, seagulls, light, hot gun knife Arab you sea gull eye dog Salamano mom sweat weight Arab you Arab you..

And it was just four shots, those that freed you from everything. Finally, you understood.

Stranger of life and death. You understood, Meursault.

Let go of the dog, who says that dog is less than your wife, Salamano? Feel the suffering, hear the dogs' howls.

Not even God will tell you who or what you are, Meursault. What does it matter to understand something, on the eve of death? Only a few hours left. Then, you have already understood.

The continuous prolongation of something that makes no sense. The world is indifferent, that's the truth. You, priest, don't pretend to sell death and forgiveness as a privilege. Pimp of souls and eternal salvation, hypocritical trader of "truth." You explain to Salamano, that that dog has no soul, that dog that has become his wife.

Now feel the indifference of the world.

You understand, Meursault. Go ahead and die.