Andre Miller is a brooding and enigmatic mate, a master of caginess, a man who keeps others at a distance dictated by cordiality. I do not claim to know him well, yet as Andre sulphurously excoriated Nate McMillan in a high-pitched voice yesterday, he reminded me of someone. Who?
I have it! As a child, I was always noted for my precocity. My curiousness, especially for literary matters, set me apart from my classmates. (The fact that I was using a razor by the age of seven contributed to this!) And it was during the blessed advent of my stubble that I read Albert Camus’s novel L’Etranger (The Stranger).
You are familiar with it? At a point in the novela, the anti-hero Meursault is on the beach. There he meets an Arab. And for seemingly no reason, Meursault shoots him!
Even stranger, although the act is most wanton, the reader somehow feels a sympathy for Meursault’s actions.
Thus it is with Andre Miller. He too is a strong, anti-heroic figure. And in the shooting off of his mouth, he descended into wrongfulness… yet one still feels a kindred response within oneself! Such are the paradoxes of existential basketball.
This brings to mind an unrelated question: Why is Gilbert Arenas writing self-help books? (And perhaps Meursault can be of assistance in the endeavor?)
