They lived outside the pale of my existence .Just a few images that touched the fringe “Hello image”: Mersault addressed Marthe .Just like only one of her other lovers did .The woman here was a mere image .The way her eyes flashed at her husband ,as she changed the nappies of the child .
The child swung in the cloth-cradle, gently, like a weaver bird swings in the fibrous nest. He cried, he gurgled, he knocked about .An image in another image’s existence .Mersault knew Marthe was a mere image .Flesh-and-blood Marthe did not know this .This woman did not know she was an image. Only I knew she was an image, like Marthe.
( While reading in the train the novel A Happy Death by Albert Camus)