早陣子（其實還真的是很久之前，快兩個月了）朋友說不如看看卡繆的作品，我翌日便在學校圖書館裏借了他的書（哈哈，我真聽話）。出版社叫鴻光書局/書店，中英對照。
這書96年出版，不算很久吧，但那時用的好像不是很先進的印刷技術，常常出現手民之誤。字時時拼錯（英文那邊），未完的句子無端端會另起一行，有時更缺了一句半句的句子（中文那邊）。有點像粗製濫造的盜版書。
原本是讀英文那一邊的。因為比較以後，中文那邊略嫌感情太過熱烈，還是英文那邊的冷靜語調比較貼近故事應有的感覺。而且，中文那邊的翻譯老是怪怪的，對照英文，才會恍然大悟－－「哦，原來說的是這麼一回事」。雖然沒讀過原來的法文版（憑我這超級初學者的水平也不會讀得懂），但感覺上英文那邊的翻譯好像準確些。讀了大概四分之一後，便一直在忙，把書冷落在書櫃裏。這兩天稍稍輕鬆一點，又再想起這故事，便再讀。不過，這回讀的是中文那邊。沒法子，我讀英文的速度遠遜於讀中文的速度，為了節省時間，還是讀中文好了（然而，我還會時不時對照英文那邊弄清楚某些句子的意思，或是說，看看中英翻譯的相異之處）。
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讀到後半部，腦裏浮現出一個詞語－－「荒謬」。
真的是荒謬。不是說 Meursalt 殺人是對的，但為什麼人們會認為他在母親喪禮的冷漠表現跟他後來殺人有莫大的關係呢？這不是太兒戲嗎？這哪裏是公平的審訊！到底法律是怎麼一回事？人情是怎麼一回事？真的不懂。也荒謬得可怕。
對於 Meursalt 的冷漠，我也不懂得作什麼深入的分析。我只是覺得，現實世界裏應該也有跟他一樣的人，什麼也沒所謂，什麼也不上心。這樣到底是好是壞，很難說。一開始，我也為Meursalt 在母親死後的所想所做而感到有點奇怪，但後來卻習以為常，覺得這樣的冷漠其實並不罕見。甚至他僅因惡毒的陽光而殺了人，我也覺得不是沒可能的。無論如何，Meursalt 到底是個誠實的人，從不在乎別人怎樣看，只會說自己的想法。而且他真的好像很沒所謂，Marie 說結婚吧他便答應，朋友跟他傾訴他大多願意聽，請他幫忙他也會幫助，這不因他很愛 Marie 或他是個熱心的人，他做這些事統統只因他沒所謂。就算是死，他也不太反抗。
Meursalt 在牢房裏藉着回憶來消磨時間的場景令我想起 Stefan Zweig 的〈棋王〉(The Royal Game) 。不過，棋王沒有 Meursalt 那樣幸運，他長時間被關在集中營那什麼也沒有的小房間裏，面對的是更難受的孤寂的折磨。若我是他，大概也會陷入瘋掉的狀態。
Meursalt 和 Marie 坦白地說自己沒有愛對方時，也是很特別的一幕。
讀完這書，我覺得《局外人》The Outsider 這書名似乎更貼題。An outsider of society, an outsider of "I"。從來都在外面，沒法入去。（不過不論意思的話，「異鄉人」這名字好像比較吸引）
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書摘：
"Liberty," he said, "means that. You're being deprived of your liberty."
It is always interesting, even in the prisoner's dock, to hear oneself being talked about. And certainly in the speeches of my lawyer and the prosecuting counsel a great deal was said about me; more, in fact, about me personally than about my crime.
One thing about this phase of the trial was rather irksome. Quite often, interested as I was in what they had to say, I was tempted to put in a word, myself. But my lawyer had advised me not to. "You won't do your case any good by talking," he had warned me. In fact, there seemed to be a conspiracy to exclude me from the proceedings; I wasn't to have any say and my fate was to be decided out of hand.
At one moment, however, I pricked up my ears; it was when I heard him saying: "It is true I killed a man." He went on in the same strain, saying "I" when he referred to me. It seemed so queer that I bent toward the policeman on my right and asked him to explain. He told me to shut up; then, after a moment, whispered: "They all do that." It seemed to me that the idea behind it was still further to exclude me from the case, to put me off the map. So to speak, by substituting the lawyer for myself. Anyway, it hardly mattered; I already felt worlds away from this courtroom and its tedious "proceedings".
Nothing, nothing had the least importance, and I knew quite well why. He, too, knew why. From the dark horizon of my future a sort of slow, persistent breeze had been blowing toward me, all my life long, from the years that were to come. And on its way that breeze had leveled out all the ideas that people tried to foist on me in the equally unreal years I then was living through. What difference could they make to me, the deaths of others, or a mother's love, or his God; or the way a man decides to live, the fate he thinks he chooses, since one and the same fate was bound to "choose"[1] not only me but thousands of millions of privileged people who, like him, called themselves my brothers. Surely, surely he must see that? Every man alive was privileged; there was only one class of men, the privileged class. All alike would be condemned to die one day; his turn, too, would come like the others'. And what difference could it make if, after being charged with murder, he were executed because he didn't weep at his mother's funeral, since it all came to the same thing in the end? The same thing for Salamano's wife and for Salamano's dog. That little robot woman was as "guity" as the girl from Paris who had married Masson, or as Marie, who wanted me to marry her. What did it matter if Raymond was as much my pal as Céleste, who was a far worthier man? What did it matter if at this very moment Marie was kissing a new boyfriend? As a condemned man himself, couldn't he grasp what I meant by that dark wind blowing from my future?......
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