Meursault’s lack of remorse is the primary argument the prosecuting lawyer makes; therefore, if it becomes trivial, there is little argument for sentencing Meursault to death. The punishment for murdering an Arab, at the time, was lenient. Furthermore, towards the end of his lawyer’s speech, I will have Meursault state that he feels remorse and regret. This makes it impossible for the prosecutor to say anything more that could be used against Meursault, eliminating most of what he has argued.
In addition, Meursault sometimes gives his own input on his surroundings. He does this frequently, usually commenting on the heat; but also, for example, at the trial when his lawyer gives his final rebuttal, Meursault thinks that the lawyer’s technique in substituting “I” for the client is “a way to exclude… [him] even further from the case, reduce… [him] to nothing, and, in a sense, substitute himself for… [him]” (p. 103).
The heat and the sun have a largely negative effect on Meursault. Seemingly, his physical discomfort is an equivalent of alcohol to him, ruining his level of awareness and self-control. This, for instance, takes place in the afternoon at the beach, when he is walking alone. Combined with the heat deteriorating his level of awareness, when the sunlight reflects off of the Arab’s dagger and into Meursault’s eyes, he perceives that he is being attacked, so he initially pulls the gun’s trigger in defense, murdering the Arab. Hence, if the heat and the sun become too great for Meursault, he will likely end up doing something out of the ordinary. It does not necessarily have to be negative, as it is in The Stranger, but positive instead.
In terms of the philosophy of Existentialism, Camus shows how society and its people, who represent life, are hostile, irrational, and, incidentally, cannot be understood. Because the trial functions to express this more than any other single event, my pastiche enables me to explore this central theme, and it is the ideal vehicle to do so.
Lastly, Camus’s other central theme, to come to terms with the absurdity of life, can still be accomplished by Meursault. This pastiche can actually serve as an alternate ending that implies a substitute, positive revelation for Meursault in dealing with the absurdity of life.
Alternate Final Moments of the Trial
As I watched my lawyer give his speech, I noticed that it was lacking. He did not have the same ability as the prosecutor. He went on and on. He tried to rebuke all of the points the prosecutor had made.
I looked out the window. The sun was at its peak. It caused the room to be filled with heat. All around the courtroom people fanned themselves.
I was too tired to continue listening to my lawyer. I remember hearing the scratches of the reporters’ pens. Maybe they’ll mention something in an article about how my lawyer didn’t let me say anything. Or maybe about how Maman’s funeral had nothing to do with the murder. I didn’t understand why that was all that the prosecutor referred to, but I knew that it was the most focused upon in the trial.
I heard the fans in the courtroom. They were on and loud. Outside I could hear the constant ringing of some ice cream vendor. Both reminded me of how hot it really was.
I wanted my lawyer to finish so the jury could make its verdict. I just wanted the trial to be finished. I didn’t see a point in it. I was accused of being remorseless, instead of murder. And the prosecutor called for my death in the name of the French people.
How could what he said be the desire of the French people? They were his words only. And only the jury, only twelve people, will decide the verdict. The entire French people won’t make the decision.
For some reason, I had the ridiculous feeling that the prosecutor wanted me sentenced to death. It was odd how he said that I was unfit for society, that I don't uphold its rules like everyone else. I couldn't make sense of it.
I looked outside again. It was getting hotter. I felt so tired and dazed. I wanted to return to my cell and sleep.
My lawyer was just about to finish his speech. Then some sunlight went through the window and like a dart hit me. I wanted to move. Sweat formed on the back of my neck, and in a moment I became covered in it.
I remember standing up suddenly. At that point, words left my mouth. I blurted, “I was too sad to show grief for Maman’s death. I was too sad.” I also added that I felt anguish for shooting the Arab.
The judge told me to sit down. Everything else after that happened in a blur. My lawyer demanded the jury to not condemn someone who lost control for just one moment. Out of the rest, I only remember the judge telling the jury something about the trial.
I noticed the blinds were shut, probably recently, since it had become darker and cooler. The judge commanded me to leave the room.
I did, with my lawyer, who tried to assure me the verdict would be favorable, although he didn’t sound very sure of that himself.
In a few minutes, I was led back into the courtroom. The jury had already given their verdict. I had a strange feeling that something was different. I looked around the room and saw the faces of the people. Their eyes were not full of hate, as I thought they would be. Instead, they seemed to be forgiving. The mood in the courtroom was lighter than before.
The judge announced my sentence: I was to serve three months in prison for the murder of an Arab.
I heard Marie sigh in relief. I realized that I had forgotten all about her since she went up as a witness. I turned to see her smiling. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I returned it.
My lawyer and his associates talked with each other about how fortunate I was. They each patted me on the shoulder and smiled, telling me that I should thank my lawyer. I didn’t think they were right. He didn’t seem to do a good job to me, but I did it anyway because they repeated it so often.
The prosecuting lawyer came up to us. He congratulated my lawyer on a job well done. Then he came up to me. He said, “It’s all because you finally admitted that you felt remorse for your mother’s death,” before leaving.
I realized then that I actually did say something about feeling so grieved that I held it in. I don’t know why I said it, but I remember that it was very hot at the time. It was a lie, though, because I have never felt remorse for anything. I don’t know why, but my lie made everyone happy. I think I need to do what’s necessary so that people don’t think I am against society.
At least now, after I serve my time in prison, I can return to the life that I had before all of this happened, with the simple and lasting joys.
Word Count: 1,500
Bibliography
Camus, Albert. The Stranger. Trans. Matthew Ward. Vintage Books: New York (1988).