Meursault was not a cruel man. He was simply a man who forgot to perform grief.

For the first time—perhaps too late—he felt ready to live it all again.

He opened his mouth to the dawn.

His neighbor, Salamano, beat his mangy dog. Another neighbor, Raymond, a pimp with a greased mustache, called Meursault “a pal.” Meursault didn’t feel friendship. He felt Raymond was there, and then not there. Still, he wrote a letter for Raymond to lure a woman to be beaten. Why? Because Raymond asked. Because the afternoon was hot. Because saying no would have required a reason.