The passages in these pages offer that parallel. He also defied many societal standards related to his mother's funeral. At his mother's funeral, he was largely alone and almost kept to himself. The parallel between the sun and his mother's funeral is also somewhat significant. Meursault was undoubtedly under the sun, and it was affecting him. It was like a red-hot blade gnawing at my eyelashes and gouging out my stinging eyes. All I could feel were the cymbals the sun was clashing against my forehead and, indistinctly, the dazzling spear still leaping up off the knife in front of me. And this time, without sitting up, the Arab drew his knife and held it out towards me in the sun. It was the same sun as on the day of my mother's funeral, and again it was my forehead that was hurting me most and all the veins were throbbing at once beneath the skin. The sun was beginning to burn on my cheeks, and I felt drops of sweat gathering in my eyebrows. Even now, he was still some distance away. Prior to these paragraphs, these Arabs had already engaged in a bit of a fight with Meursault and his friends, with one of them having slashed his friend with a knife. You have to remember that Meursault had simply gone with his friends for a day on the beach. There was a bit of a defensive mood at this point in the story. As soon as he saw me, he sat up lightly and put his hand in his pocket. As far as I was concerned, it was all settled and I'd gone there without even thinking about it. He was lying on his back, with his hands behind his head.

But when I got nearer, I saw that Raymond's Arab had come back. I wanted to hear the murmur of its water again, to escape from the sum and the effort and the women's tears, and to relax in the shade again.

Meursault the stranger