The Meursault Investigation by Kamel Daoud
By Kamel Daoud
He was once the brother of “the Arab” killed by way of the notorious Meursault, the antihero of Camus’s vintage novel. Seventy years after that occasion, Harun, who has lived on account that formative years within the shadow of his sibling’s reminiscence, refuses to allow him stay nameless: he provides his brother a narrative and a name—Musa—and describes the occasions that resulted in Musa’s informal homicide on a dazzlingly sunny beach.
In a bar in Oran, evening after evening, he ruminates on his solitude, on his damaged center, on his anger with males determined for a god, and on his disarray whilst confronted with a rustic that has so disillusioned him. A stranger between his personal humans, he desires to be granted, eventually, the appropriate to die.
The Stranger is naturally relevant to Daoud’s tale, within which he either endorses and criticizes some of the most recognized novels on this planet. A precious supplement to its nice predecessor, The Meursault research is not just a profound meditation on Arab identification and the disastrous results of colonialism in Algeria, but in addition a beautiful paintings of literature in its personal correct, advised in a different and affecting voice.
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You filthy beggar, get out of here, don't touch me, if you lay a finger on me I'll cane you to death . . and he'd go back to the window with the broken panes, stark . naked. The old women and the nuns didn't dare cross the court with the orange trees anymore. We decided that the best thing was to board up the shutters of his cell. But he always managed to break them down. Until one night, as Don Clemente slept, I walled up his window with bricks and cement, the first window I walled up in the Casa.
It was witch craft, black magic, and that's why the peasants were being crushed under the weight of endless misfortunes. Over the bone dry plains, where the animals swollen with thirst were dying off, the head of the landowner's daughter, flapping huge sinewy ears that were like bat wings, would fly after the yellow bitch dog it was warty and scrawny like the girl's nursemaid-that guided the chonch6n to a place indicated by the rays of their accom plice, the moon, on the other side of the hills.
I'm the seventh old woman. I'll take it upon myself to watch over the Azcoitia about to be born. Iris's - 50 vomit, which I washed from the kitchen tiles, anointed me. I keep it wrapped in a floor rag, with my books and my manu scripts, under the bed, where all old women keep their things. THE FIRST TffiNG I had to do was win them over. If I didn't find a way to dazzle them, I'd be accepted by them in name only, even though I'd groveled for them. I let a few days go by while I laid my plans, letting them go on barely talking to me and watching me on the sly.