Music: Numericalword
Arranger: Numericalword
Lyrics∶Albert Camus/Matthew Ward
口白∶Echoes
1. (page 3)
Maman died today.
Or yesterday maybe, I don't know.
I got a telegram from the home:
"Mother deceased.
Funeral tomorrow.
Faithfully yours."
That doesn't mean anything.
Maybe it was yesterday.
2. (page 59)
The sea carried up a thick, fiery breath.
It seemed to me as if the sky split open from one end to the other to rain down fire.
My whole being tensed and I squeezed my hand around the revolver.
The trigger gave;
I felt the smooth underside of the butt;
and there, in that noise,
sharp and deafening at the same time,
is where it all started.
I shook off the sweat and sun.
I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day,
the exceptional silence of a beach where I'd been happy.
Then I fired four more times at the motionless body
where the bullets lodged without leaving a trace.
And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.
3. (page 122-123)
So close to death,
Maman must have felt free then
and ready to live it all again.
Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her.
And I felt ready to live i t all again too.
As if that blind rage had washed me clean,
rid me of hope;
for the first time,
in that night alive with signs and stars,
I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world.
Finding it so much like myself
- so like a brother, really
- I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again.
For everything to be consummated,
for me to feel less alone,
I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators
the day of my execution
and that they greet me with cries of hate.
"The stranger. 1942." Trans. Matthew Ward.
New York: Vintage International (1989).>