The Stranger

I felt as I hadn’t felt for ages. I had a foolish desire to burst into tears. For the first time I’d realized how all these people loathed me.

Since we’re all going to die, it’s obvious that when and how don’t matter.

I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a cigarette. But I wasn’t sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances—in Mother’s presence. I thought it over; really, it didn’t seem to matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.

Still, I had an idea he looked annoyed, and I said, without thinking: “Sorry, sir, but it’s not my fault, you know.”

I agreed it wasn’t a bad plan; it would punish her, all right.

Every time there’s a death here, they’re in a nervous state for two or three days

It was such a new experience, being a focus of interest; in the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me.

It was such a new experience, being a focus of interest; in the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me.

I hadn’t grasped how days could be at once long and short. Long, no doubt, as periods to live through, but so distended that they ended up by overlapping on each other. In fact, I never thought of days as such; only the words “yesterday” and “tomorrow” still kept some meaning.

So I learned that even after a single day’s experience of the outside world a man could easily live a hundred years in prison. He’d have laid up enough memories never to be bored.