Lately, a term has become common: “chill human.” It refers to a state in which one’s reactions to the outside world tend to be subdued, emotional fluctuations are restrained, and daily behavior appears restrained yet relaxed. Work, eating, and the passage of life all proceed at a steady, even rhythm. The phrase “chill lifelessness” has been circulating online; it sounds like a joke, but upon closer reflection, it faintly touches upon a genuine experience. While reading The Stranger, I kept wondering: Was the protagonist, Meursault, a “chill human” from 80 years ago?
Just how “chill” was Meursault?
At the beginning of the novel, Meursault says, “Today, Mother died. Maybe yesterday, I don’t know.” Even after his mother’s death, he isn’t sure exactly which day it happened; his tone is as matter-of-fact as if he were saying the weather is nice today. The blurring of time and the flatness of his tone create a stark contrast. Not only that, but when his girlfriend asks if he loves her, he replies, “Probably not”; when his boss wants to send him to Paris to open a branch office, he says, “It doesn’t matter either way.” At this point in the book, many readers feel confused—I did too. I even found the book absurd, sensing an atmosphere reminiscent of the “chill lifelessness” pervading contemporary society.
But upon closer reflection, Meursault’s “chill” differs from that of today’s “chill human.”
They may look similar on the surface, but they come from different places. One grows out of a clear decision. The other feels like something worn down over time. Meursault knows what people expect from him. He understands the rules that shape everyday behavior. Still, he sticks to his own way of moving through the world. At the funeral, he stays with what he actually feels. In his relationship, he speaks plainly and avoids dressing things up. That way of living shows a steady sense of self, and it sets a quiet line against outside pressure. His feelings come from within, and his actions follow that line without drifting.
People today who get called “chill ” come from a different place. Pressure builds up over time. Work moves fast, and the cost of living keeps rising, so the strain sticks around and slowly wears people down. In that kind of setting, emotions settle into a narrower range, almost as a way to stay steady. Energy fades after being used again and again, and expectations shift to match what feels realistic. Life falls into a regular rhythm. It keeps going, but it can feel a bit flat. That change, from intense to more reserved, grows out of a long stretch of adjustment. It becomes a way to deal with the world as it is.
The sole intersection between the two forms of “chill.”
Meursault is sentenced to death in the end. He faces it without panic. He says, “I was happy before, and I am still happy now.” The line feels quiet. Steady, even. He looks back on his life in a calm way, holding past and present together as one continuous stretch. That sense of ease comes from how he has always lived, staying true to what he feels, keeping his inner world and his actions in line. People today who get called “chill” move differently. Pressure builds over time, and one way to deal with it is to lower expectations a bit and keep emotions within a range that feels safe. It helps. It keeps things stable. Life stays manageable, even when everything around them feels fast and crowded. There is still a point where these two lines cross. Both create some distance from the world. Meursault draws that line through honest expression, saying only what he actually feels. Others shape that distance by adjusting what they hope for and how much they invest. Different methods, same direction. In the end, they both protect a small space that belongs to them. That might be the only real link between the man from decades ago and young people now who talk about that “chill lifelessness” .
