The Stranger

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.

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

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.

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.

This seemed to me quite normal; just as I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead. I couldn't even say that this was hard to stomach; really, there's no idea to which one doesn't get acclimatized in time.

Once you're up against it, the precise manner of your death has obviously small importance.

“But,” I reminded myself, “it's common knowledge that life isn't worth living, anyhow.” And, on a wide view, I could see that it makes little difference whether one dies at the age of thirty or threescore and ten—since, in either case, other men and women will continue living, the world will go on as before.