On the surface, L'Etranger gives the appearance of being an extremely simple though carefully planned and written book. In reality, it is a dense and rich creation, full of undiscovered meanings and formal qualities. It would take a book at least the length of the novel to make a complete analysis of meaning and form and the correspondences of meaning and form, in L’Etranger . 
All this rage (and about a squillion other emotions): a thoroughly un-Meursault way of existing on Planet Earth. And this, I finally realized, was what made me a stranger of a different kind: For years, too much feeling seemed like a curse I carried, but when I started writing (imitations, at first, of Meursault's story), that depth and intensity of emotion became an incredible gift, and oddly enough, the rage began to cool. It was Meursault who helped me do that — a stranger who, in time, became a friend.
Perhaps Camus himself best defined his own particular status as a philosophical writer when he wrote (with authors like Melville, Stendhal, Dostoyevsky, and Kafka especially in mind): “The great novelists are philosophical novelists”; that is, writers who eschew systematic explanation and create their discourse using “images instead of arguments” ( The Myth of Sisyphus 74).
Sandra Smith has, in her admirable translation, plucked carefully upon this thread in the novel, so that Anglophone readers might better grasp Camus’s allusions. Here is but one key example: the novel’s last line, in French, begins “ Pour que tout soit consommé , .. .” which Ward translates, literally, as “For everything to be consummated.” But as Smith points out, the French carries “an echo of the last words of Jesus on the Cross: ‘ Tout est consommé .’” Her chosen rendition, then, is “So that it might be finished,” a formulation that echoes Christ’s last words in the King James translation of the Bible.