content: I picked up The Stranger expecting the worst. With a sigh I sat down to read it, and about an hour later, I put it down. I sighed again, shrugged and then ate lunch. At dinner, I told my father that I had finished reading it, and my reaction to the text. He grinned and waved his fork. "That's exactly what Camus was writing about." Confused, I read the book again. And this time, I liked it. The more I read it, the easier it was to understand. I felt connected to the characters, and sympathized with the events in thier lives. The Stranger nows has a special space in my bookcase.