This Must Be How Napoleon Felt (Before Elba)
Victory, my friends.
Pure, unadulterated, glorious VICTORY.
After almost a year, I have finally finished Albert Camus’ L’Étranger (The Stranger in English).
This was the first book in French that I have timidly tackled since college, and being several years out of practice, I was not sure that I would come out on the other end with any idea of what the heck the book was even about (the existentialists are vague enough in my mother tongue). I am proud to say that I fully understood, on average, 87.6% of the book, and while I still cannot figure out who Celeste is, or whose avocat (lawyer) was whose, I do know the basics. And for this, I am immensely fière de moi-même (proud of myself).
So now I am celebrating with a cup of Earl Grey and a bowl of oatmeal, with about a pound of cinnamon in it (delicious and good for you; proven to lower cholestorol and prevent yeast infections, neither of which I struggle with, but I won’t now, thanks to cinnamon). I suppose it would be more French to drink a bottle of red wine and drunkenly sing “La Marseillaise,” but it’s 8:30 in the morning and I don’t know the words.