Because, much as I wanted to, I couldn't really adopt Meursault's emotional detachment. It was plenty appealing: seemed like if you were detached that way, things might not hurt as bad. My problem, I decided at the time, was always feeling too much. There was this white-hot rage I felt toward my father, a man who'd sat there in a stalled pickup on the tracks of the Frisco railroad, trying to get the thing restarted, too ashamed to go back and tell the friend he'd borrowed the truck from that he'd gotten it flattened by a train. (His solution was to stay behind the wheel, grinding the ignition, until the train hit and killed him.) There was that red-hot rage I felt toward my mother. There was a medium-rare kind of rage I felt toward all the little Podunks in my little Podunk community. (Its actual name is "Little" — Google it.) And then there was that raw-pink rage I reserved for myself — I knew, deep down, I was the littlest Podunk around.