He remained quite still at first, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on his hands. They were slender but sinewy hands, which made me think of two nimble little animals. Then he gently rubbed them together. He stayed so long in the same position that for a while. I almost forgot he was there. Then, suddenly, he jerked his head up and looked me in the eyes.

“Why,” he asked, “don’t you let me come to see you?”

I explained that I didn’t believe in God.

“Are you really so sure of that?”

I said I saw no point in troubling my head about the matter; whether I believed or didn’t was, to my mind, a question of so little importance.

He then leaned back against the wall, laying his hands flat on his thighs. Almost without seeming to address me, he remarked that he’d often noticed one fancies one is quite sure about something when one isn’t. When I said nothing, he looked at me again and asked:

“Don’t you agree?”

I said that seemed quite possible. But though I mightn’t be so sure about what interested me, I was absolutely sure about what didn’t interest me. And the question he had raised didn’t interest me at all.

From “The Stranger,” by Albert Camus

Albert Camus’ literary style impresses me. Like Hemingway, Albert Camus writes clear, short sentences that seem simple. But they brim with carefully selected words that render deep meaning to his stories.  Albert Camus devised the philosophy of the absurd.  Humans try to make sense of their existence in a world where life serves no purpose.  People tried to solve this puzzle by creating religions and irrational beliefs.  But humans must accept their existence’s lack of goal. This acknowledgment will make them free to enjoy with passion every personal experience.  The above snippet reflects this phylosophy.