I’d somewhat agree with that – Camus said as much himself – but I’d go a little further. I’d suggest he wasn’t killed because he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral but because he didn’t pretend to cry. Like the story of the Emperor’s New Clothes, the crowd didn’t really care what other people saw only that they pretend to see what they have been told to see.
In the oppressive Algerian heat, the oily men stood handsome in their best Sunday suits and polished black shoes. They chatted amongst themselves mostly ignoring the old people from the nursing home who looked like bruised fruit that had fallen from the large tree above them. The young Arab girls were fussing over the old people so that was enough. In mourning dress, black hats and sunglasses the women took on the appearance of a murder of crows sitting on a wire. Occasionally they’d pass a rehearsed look of sadness between each other as they waited and watched the priest make the final preparations for the short walk to the cemetery.
This was the story of the prodigal son returning. The townsfolk expected to see a biblical re-enactment played out before them. They came to hear the wayward son blubber words of contrition and see pleas of forgiveness dribble like saliva from his lips. They wanted to look into his red swollen face and see guilt in another’s face rather than staring back at them in the mirror. But more than anything, they wanted to see his eyes burst open and catch fire when the priest told his favourite stories about mercy and miracles, about being raised from the grave and being swallowed into a stainless steel blue sky.
When they got the chance, the townspeople would offer the poor man forgiveness, condolences and unsolicited advice. Feeling pity for a fellow human being always made them feel patronisingly superior, yet humble - one of the perks of being a Christian. But the man before them was a hollow man. He had no place where pity could be received so when his dry eyes turned towards the women they quickly looked away or rumble through their handbags searching for an excuse to avoid his naked stare. What strange man is this? Who doesn’t cry at his mother’s funeral?
Meursault was at the funeral for practical reasons - he had to bear witness and sign papers - besides he got two days off and, as luck would have it, the two days ran into the weekend. His mother’s death was a nice little surprise. Tomorrow he’d be home. He’d spend the day on the beach and make love to a woman who, like his mother, would leave him without saying where she was going. This departure would disappoint him more than his mother’s because this time, he wouldn’t be able to get time off work.
A man who feared being ostracized by society would distort his face and sob at his mother’s funeral even if he was glad she was dead. A man who wished to manipulate others would play along and sob for the appreciative audience as well but Meursault remained indifferent. He didn’t even make an attempt to look sad. A person who doesn’t fear society’s judgement… who doesn’t fear being ostracised… is a person who can’t be manipulated and a person who can’t be manipulated, cannot be controlled. This is a dangerous man, indeed.
Rituals are very important to society. They are expressions of shared beliefs and shared beliefs are what keep societies bound together. On a psychological level, shared beliefs are what give individuals personal identity, purpose and meaning so one who unravels the weave is playing with fire. This is what happened to Meursault. His beliefs, opinions and hopes had been unravelling his entire life. By the time of his mother’s death, there was little of him left to grieve and even less of him to worry about what others might say.
Sometime later, another crowd would come; this time they would come to see Meursault die. Like the first crowd, these people would be sorely disappointed because rather than being splashed with tears, Meursault would take his place on the gallows with dry open eyes. With clear eyes he would look up and see what the priest had meant by the stainless steel-blue sky.
(I’ll be away for a while so I won’t comment until I get back. Please don’t start a “Is Chakra Dead?” thread while I’m gone. 
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