Why French Existentialism Will Get You Nowhere

The Shawstrange Redemption

You hear a lot of people say that they would go back in time and kill Hitler, but it’s been proven that attempting this would create a reality-destroying paradox. Many telepathic remote viewers have glimpsed young Hitler saying: “I swear if one more time-traveller tries to kill me, I’m quitting the art game and doing some real nasty stuff!” It seems that you can’t change history, but you can change fiction.

Armed with a Reading Rainbow Time Machine™ and a post-undergrad loathing of the concept of existential dread, I’ve set my sights on The Stranger. I’ve set the dial back in literary time, to 1940s Algeria. The mission: to prevent the book’s protagonist from making an absurd and deadly mistake.

Summary

If you’re not familiar with the Stranger, here’s the plot. Meursault is the main character. He lives in French Algeria. His mother has just died, but he’s strangely detached from her passing. He has a decent job, promotion options, and a hot girlfriend who loves him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just smokes cigarettes, drinks wine, and flops about like a walking ashtray. Meursault has a loser neighbor, Raymond, a scumbag who has beaten up his girlfriend, an Arab lady. Now her brother, an Arab guy, seeks revenge on the scumbag loser.

One day, Meursault and this loser go to the beach. The Arab thugs descend upon them, slicing up the loser Raymond pretty good. The Frenchies go back to their beach house, but then Meursault turns around and walks back to where the Arab guy is just hanging out, and shoots him point blank. He shoots him good: one bullet at first. Then four more times, just to be weird. Then absurdly, Meursault and his absurd little attitude are put in this absurd little jail. He’s not really on trial for the murder, but because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. Apparently he’s just too chill for the hot sands of Northern Africa and so he is guillotined.

~Fin~

Now, here’s where I come in.

I arrive at the beach, but sacre bleu! The sun is already high overhead! I must’ve miscalculated. The knife attack that promp’s Merusault’s retaliatory gun murder has already occured. But I still have time to intervene. I can save future readers 60 bleak pages of the nakedness of man facing the absurd. Holy Allah it’s hot, but I have to stay on task. Luckily, I was sure to pack my sunscreen. I slather my rippling shoulders and doughy, but tough tummy.

I find Meursault pointing his weapon at his poor Arab victim.

Centaur: Woah, dude, you’re not gonna kill that guy, are you?

Meursault: It’s so hot and I have ennui.

Centaur: You’re on weed? Must be some powerful shit.

Meursault: Ennui!

Centaur: On ween? I don’t do that kind of stuff. I’m trying to help you, not engage in any Frenchie funny business.

Meursault: No stupid American, ennui. It’s the type of boredom that makes you want to kill an Arab!

Centaur: Oh, “on wee” - like boredom. I get that brother, it's like nothing happened in the boring 1990s. Then some Arabs got rowdy, so we killed a shitload of them, and they weren’t even in the right country! But alas and lackaday, it didn’t really solve our problems.

Meursault: Are you saying that killing this Arab won’t solve my existential problems?

Centaur: I’m pretty sure it won’t. Now for the record, please state your name.

Meursault: Meursault?

Centaur: Mere assault? That sounds preferable to mere murder! 
[I pause for laughter]

Meursault lights another cigarette, and says nothing. Even though he’s French, he still looks pretty cool smoking.

Centaur: Anyway, you Frenchies better get used to this violent Muslim behavior. In the year 2025, the demographics of France will be 50% Muslim and 70% homosexual.

Meursault stares blankly at me. I can tell the heat’s getting to him. His trigger finger twitches as he raises the gun towards me.

I sigh.

Krakow! I shoot first. “Han Solo. You weren’t ready for that, but your kids are gonna love it!” I wink at the Arab, then at God’s three-person omniscient camera in the sky.

The sunburned Arab screams. Since the jig is up, I shoot him too. The French police rush in.

They grab me, cuff me, jabbering in colonial Frogilese.

I raise my hands and try to explain:

“It’s fine! I just prevented the most annoying Frenchman in literature from killing that guy. You know, the unnamed Arab guy! Anyway, I’m pretty sure he was plotting to blow up Charlie Hebdo. Also you’re welcome in advance for saving your asses in Dubya-Dubya Two.”

They don’t get it. They don’t speak American. At least not good like I do. I’m booked. No interpreter. No bail. But I have a plan.

You see, unlike that nihilist Meursault, I have found meaning in life. For me, the first source of meaning is the wholesale destruction of whiny French literature. We need less cry-ssants and more Monte Cristos, you Dumases. I’m talking heroes and sandwiches.

The second source of Meaning for me? An inspiring prison escape.

I start tunneling out of my cell, disguising the hole behind a poster of Brigitte Bardot. Luckily, I’ve keistered some advanced 21st century tools to expedite the process. I crawl through 500 yards of postmodern filth and break into the night. Back to the beach to my hidden time machine. I’ve saved fiction, at least in part. One less case of mistaking boredom and senseless violence for wisdom.