From The Stranger by Albert Camus:
"A man had left a Czech village to seek his fortune. Twenty-five years later, and now rich, he had returned with a wife and a child. His mother was running a hotel with his sister in the village where he’s been born. In order to surprise them, he had left his wife and child at another hotel and gone to see his mother, who didn’t recognize him when he walked in. As a joke he’d had the idea of taking a room. He had shown off his money. During the night his mother and his sister had beater him to death with a hammer in order to rob him and had thrown his body in the river. The next morning the wife had come to the hotel and, without knowing it, gave away the traveler’s identity. The mother hanged herself. The sister threw herself down a well."
I read The Stranger over five years ago, however, for some strange reason, this passage reoccurs in my head every so often.
I feel like crap right now... partly due to Habs losing in overtime, but most likely due to sitting under the sun for more than three hours in front of Hart House... possible sunstroke? But it wasn’t even hot at all! ...I don’t really know. I am beyond exhausted and I must go to bed now.