"Rire est le Propre de L'Homme": Laughter in Camus's L'Étranger

It may surprise readers to know that Camus's 1942 novel, not known for humor,¹ features enough occurrences of the word rire for it to qualify as a motif, appearing twenty-one times in part I, most often in descriptions of Marie Cardona, the typist with whom Meursault reconnects during a swim on the day after his mother's funeral. It appears as a verb only six times in part II–not surprisingly, since that section centers on Meursault's trial–along with two additional instances of the word as a noun. The word sourire occurs only twice in part I (as a verb), but appears in part II eight times as a verb and two as a noun. Curiously, critics seldom mention laughter in L'Étranger; if they do, it is only in passing, and almost exclusively in reference to Marie, who, as we shall see, hardly has a monopoly on it. This study aims to fill the gap left by Camus critics through a systematic analysis of the network of references to laughter in L'Étranger. In Camus's best-known novel, it is not the eyes that are the window to the soul, but laughter.²

Marie–according to Arthur Scherr, Camus's "favorite creation" ("Marie" 1)–is the obvious starting point in this survey, since she is both the first character to laugh and the one who laughs the most, not to mention the one whose very name evokes laughter. All it takes to trigger that response the first time is for Meursault to brush against her breasts during their initial swim (151). The narrator uses the imperfect tense there and shortly thereafter, adding the adverb "toujours" to emphasize her laughter's pervasiveness (151), then switches to the passé composé for the next occurrence of rire, when Marie reacts to Meursault's invitation to the movies (151). These initial instances reveal Marie's most obvious character traits: a childlike joie de vivre (Henri Bergson's belief that we underestimate "ce qu'il y a encore d'enfantin [. . .] dans la plupart de nos émotions joyeuses" [51-52] seems relevant here) combined with a decidedly adult sensuality. She expresses the same kind of pleasure the morning of the trip to Masson's house on the beach: in contrast to Meursault, who feels empty and has a headache, Marie laughs delightedly when he tells her she is beautiful, then jumps for joy–a sort of full-body laughter–while enthusing over the very weather that strikes Meursault "comme une gifle" (168). Scherr comments that "[u]nlike the impassive Meursault, Marie is usually laughing, at peace with herself and the world" ("Marie" 7); she is, for him, far more than the "mere brainless sexual object for Meursault" that many critics dismiss her as; he even compares her to a Greek fertility goddess figure ("Marie" 1).

That Marie is more multi-faceted than critics give her credit for becomes evident when she demonstrates that she can laugh in different ways and circumstances. She laughs, for example, when Meursault attempts to explain the relationship between Salamano and his dog; notably, this is the first time that the narrating Meursault provides some insight into the effect of her laughter on his younger self, stating, in the very next sentence, that "[q]uand elle a ri, j'ai eu encore envie d'elle" (161). That pattern recurs shortly thereafter in another serious context, when Marie delves into Meursault's emotions, asking him if he loves her, to which Meursault famously says that "cela ne voulait rien dire, mais qu'il me semblait que non" (161). Though initially saddened, Marie recovers quickly: while preparing lunch, "et à propos de rien, elle a encore ri de telle façon que je l'ai embrassée" (161).³ Twice, then, Marie laughs at an incongruous moment, causing Meursault to feel and, this time, to act, on physical arousal. It is ironic that this instance of laughter is framed by Meursault's rejection of her on the emotional level and by the violent dispute between Meursault's neighbor, Raymond...