I took a nap on a summers afternoon, warm, bright with sunlight. 

I awakened noting that my blood sugar was high.  A diabetic pays attention to such things.  I decided to take a bike ride into town.  The afternoon was quiet. A short ride would serve to address the high blood sugar.  Riding for twenty minutes or so I reached the west bank of the Fox River just north of the Donovan bridge.  Reclining against a light pole I found a seat in the shade on the grassy bank.  I watched two fishermen standing waist deep in the river, silently casting their lines and waiting. 

I opened my copy of The Stranger by Albert Camus.  I am anticipating a discussion with an acquaintance about the story soon.  I reviewed again Camus description of events taking place in the sweltering heat of Algeria: from the funeral of Meursault’s mother; to the murder which he commits at the instigation of his casual friend, Raymond; his indictment, trial, and conviction by consent of judges and jury. On the surface he is a wretched human, isolated, a life of unrelieved tedium, barren of meaning, culminating in shame, his head to be severed in the public square. 

In the end he finds redemption.

If I could cast a spell with words half as well as Albert Camus, — I would be very happy.

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Maman died today.  Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.  I got a telegram from the home.  “Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.”  That doesn’t mean anything.  Maybe it was yesterday.  page 1

That evening Marie came by to see me and asked me if I wanted to marry her.

I said it didn’t make any difference to me and that we could if she wanted to. Then she wanted to know if I loved her. I answered the same way I had the last time, that it didn’t mean anything but that I probably didn’t love her.

“So why marry me, then?” she said.

I explained to her that it didn’t really matter and that if she wanted to, we could get married. Besides, she was the one doing the asking and all I was saying was yes.

Then she pointed out that marriage was a serious thing.

I said, “No.”  page 42

In the end, all I remember is that while my lawyer went on talking, I could hear through the expanse of the chambers and courtrooms an ice cream vendor blowing his tin trumpet out in the street.  I was assailed by memories of a life that wasn’t mine anymore, but one in which I’d found the simplest and most lasting joys: the smells of summer, the part of town I loved, a certain evening sky, Marie’s dresses and the way she laughed.  The utter pointlessness of whatever I was doing here seized me by the throat, and I wanted to get it over with and get back to my cell and sleep.   page 105