The Plague

Only the sea, murmurous behind the dingy checkerboard of houses, told of the unrest, the precariousness, of all things in this world.

the sounds of mild activity characteristic of the hour; a drone rather than a bustling, the noises of a happy town, in short, if it’s possible to be at once so dull and happy.

Like Cottard he felt a need for friendly contacts, human warmth.

What’s important is for you to go out a bit. It’s a mistake staying indoors too much.”

some stir in Algiers. A young commercial employee had killed an Algerian on a beach.

he’d feel still better if only he could be sure of being left in peace. Rieux remarked that one couldn’t always be alone.

There lay certitude; there, in the daily round. All the rest hung on mere threads and trivial contingencies; you couldn’t waste your time on it. The thing was to do your job as it should be done.

“The important thing,” Castel replied, “isn’t the soundness or otherwise of the argument, but for it to make you think.”

You must picture the consternation of our little town, hitherto so tranquil, and now, out of the blue, shaken to its core, like a quite healthy man who all of a sudden feels his temperature shoot up and the blood seething like wildfire in his veins.