I first read The Stranger over ten years ago, due to its inclusion on a “must-read classics” list. On first read, I found the book approachable but the plot didn’t stick with me. The ending, the style or the main themes didn’t’ stick with me.
Recently, The Stranger was mentioned on a podcast. The guest spoke at length about Camus’s prose, especially how his sentences land with precision. I decided to try the book again, but with my familiar hesitation with “literary” classics. Would I pick up the finer themes this time, or would I just scan the surface for the plot without understanding what matters? Without my junior year English teacher to guide me through, would I fully appreciate the work?

So I brought in my own guide: AI, to provide critical context before I got started. I asked for why Camus’s novel matters, what themes I should notice, and what makes his style so admired.
Here’s a selection of what my virtual English teacher offered:

Why Critics Find Camus’s Writing So Powerful

1. Radical Simplicity as Art –Critics call Camus’s style “lucid minimalism.” The sentences are often short and direct, stripped of decoration. “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can’t be sure.” This first line is famous for its blunt honesty, almost to the point of discomfort. Camus aims for clarity without making things easy or comforting. The plain style is part of the story, and every sensory detail counts: the sun, the heat, the light. All are written plainly, but these simple details manage to feel oppressive and sacred at the same time. Thinkers like Sartre and Barthes admired how Camus left behind the flowery 19th-century style and created a new language for alienation.

2. The Music of the Ordinary
3. The Sun as Symbol and Structure
4. Honesty as Aesthetic and Moral Force
5. The Elegance of Restraint
   
   • Read a paragraph out loud; Camus’s rhythm appears when spoken.
   • Highlight every sensory reference—sun, sky, sound, temperature—and consider how those moments underline the story’s tension.
   • Watch for contradictions. Where does beauty cross with brutality? That is where Camus’s clarity and cruelty meet.
   • Revisit the ending when you finish. Many say the final pages are among the quiet peaks of 20th-century writing—a kind of acceptance that feels both terrifying and oddly peaceful.

Each heading above came with more detail, but this provides a good example. This framework, this grounding made a noticeable difference. I was able to see how much Camus leaves unsaid, lets meaning live in the spaces between his descriptions. With Camus, style isn’t just an ornament—it’s the story itself.
I wish I recorded my thoughts on my first read. I suspect the real impact of The Stranger goes unseen the first time, hidden in what Camus describes and what he leaves out. The real focus is Meursault’s (the POV character) reaction to everything, not the big events themselves.
I didn’t stop there. I asked my AI teacher for tips on actually enjoying Camus’s lyricism: read aloud, notice the pauses, pay attention to how short sentences string together. The cadence inside each paragraph matches the hum of daily life, while Camus varies the pace to highlight the absurd.

The plot keeps things moving, and there is suspense, but the main character’s uncertainty isn’t the main event. What matters is how Meursault responds, with none of the backstory that crowd modern fiction. Camus’s realism is refreshing. Sometimes, terrible things happen and there is no elaborate explanation.
Gathering context from AI and then cycling through a conversation about themes, symbolism, and what makes the novel endure changes the experience. It fills a gap I felt reading novels since I was seventeen, and I plan to use it for every classic from now on.

I’ve read Dubliners by James Joyce three times. An upcoming trip to Ireland inspired my most recent read. I’ve viewed Dubliners as an easier way to read a classic; short, immersive stories. Also, a nice way to come out of the Hemingway jag.

I used to start my morning writing sessions by either copying lines of classic texts (The Sun Also Rises, The Great Gatsby, Wool) to learn about sentence structure or read Dubliners to hear the lyricism. If I read quickly, I often miss the poetry of the words, reading to find out what happens next. The wordplay is more noticeable on slower, closer reads, as is the tone and speech of the characters. I wonder how much of what they say and infer is lost to time, though… every story has references to specifics that are very Irish or locked in the early 1900s.

Joyce wrote this short story collection while away from Ireland and Dublin. He spent most of his adult life abroad. Which is striking, since Dublin itself is one of the main characters in the book. Each story contains specific references to streets and bridges, specific pubs, etc. Not to mention the overall tone and mood of the city. It’s crazy to think an author wrote so intently about a place yet choosing to live somewhere else. In my many author-ly fantasies, I picture myself living somewhere exotic for a few months under the guise of research.

A few things struck me on this third read. There are a few thematic constants in the stories. One is the overall tone… it’s a depressing read. Almost every character is poor and struggling for money while living in the city’s underclass. Poverty hangs over each story… the characters fight and scrape for punts and shillings. Characters like Lenehan in Two Gallants scam young women, old men expose themselves to young boys in An Encounter, and Mr Duffy in A Painful Case condemns a beau to a life of despair. Gray is used to describe the characters and the city itself.

Another constant is alcohol consumption. Not in a merry, where’s-the-craic sort of way, but how much trouble it causes. Each story has at least one character whose life is significantly worse because of drinking.

Finally, it seems none of Joyce’s characters can escape Dublin. Joyce set all of the stories in actual places in the city. One character, Evelin in, well, Eveline, is set to leave what seems like an awful home life, but finds she can’t board the ship to leave. The young, middle-aged and near-dead can’t get out of the city.

Dubliners was an easier read this time. The older conventions, styles and attitudes didn’t jump off the page at me. Maybe this is because of reading so much of others from that same time period? Or just an expectation grounded in experience.

read Part 1

The last part of The War of Art that stood out on this read was Pressfield’s discussion on the Ego and the Self. Terms I’ve heard a million times but never considered. He describes the Ego as what we think of when we say “I”, the conscious, day-to-day brain. The Self is a greater entity that includes the Ego but also the unconscious, dreams, the collective.

I’m uncomfortable with this thread; I’ve never delved into any Jungian theory. But, and I’m sure this was the intention, if one considers the role of the artist is to listen and accept work from the universe, then only knowing and operating on the Ego isn’t enough. The Self is where the good stuff lives.

The following put this into sharp focus. “Dreams come from the Self. Ideas come from the Self. When we meditate, we access the Self. When we fast, when we pray, when we go on a vision quest, it’s the Self we’re seeking.” I meditate and dream, but did I know why? Is this why creators like Neil Gaiman and his endless production of new and wonderful stories, can tap new ideas so consistently? My big takeaway is to concentrate more on this idea of the Self and how to access it more regularly.

My re-read of The War of Art was incredibly useful. It reaffirmed so many of the practices I already put into place… during a period where I’ve been questioning them. I actually listened to the last part of the book and to the synergies Pressfield describes. The professional artist is open to the world and, through the consistent habits and approaches, can listen and absorb and act as a vessel… by having the requisite skills, honed by the honest feedback of others and by accessing the Self.