Jean-Paul Sartre

I can’t explain what I see. To anyone. There: I am quietly slipping into the water’s depths, towards fear. I am alone in the midst of these happy, reasonable voices. All these creatures spend their time explaining, realizing happily that they agree with each other. In Heaven’s name, why is it so important to think the same things all together.

¿Cómo se puede mentir poniendo a la razón de parte de uno?

I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my throat, it caresses me- and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me.

Madame Picard believed that a child should be allowed to read anything: 'A book never does any harm if it is well written.' While she was there, I had once asked permission to read Madame Bovary and my mother, in an oversweet voice, had said: 'But if my darling reads books like that at his age, what will he do when he grows up?' 'I shall live them!' This reply had met with the most complete and lasting success.

Most of the time, because of their failure to fasten on to words, my thoughts remain misty and nebulous. They assume vague, amusing shapes and are then swallowed up: I promptly forget them.

Nada ha cambiado y, sin embargo, todo existe de otra manera. No puedo describirlo; es como la Náusea y, sin embargo, es precisamente lo contrario: al fin me sucede otra aventura, y cuando me interrogo veo que me sucedo que yo soy yo y que estoy aquí; soy yo quien hiende la noche; me siento feliz como un héroe de novela.

he is betrayed by the cynical sparkle of her eyes, by her sophisticated look. Real ladies do not know the price of things, they like adorable follies; their eyes are like beautiful, hothouse flowers.

Finally, it is worth mentioning, in the interest of thoroughness, that the defeat exasperated the conflict between generations. For four years the combatants of 1914 reproached those of 1940 for having lost the war, and those of 1940, in reply, accused their elders of having lost the peace.

إن هؤلاء الشباب يُدهشونني: فهم يروون، إذ يحتسون قهوتهم، قصصا واضحة ومحتملة الوقوع. وإذا سُئلوا عما فعلوا البارحة، لا يضطربون بل إنهم يُجيبونك بكلمتين. لو كنت مكانهم، لتلعثمت. ومن الحق أن ليس ثمّة بعد من يهتم بكيفيّة أستعمالي لوقتي. إن من يعش وحيدا، لا يعرف حتى معنى أن يروي. فإحتمال وقوع الأحداث يختفي في الوقت نفسه الذي يختفي فيه الأصدقاء».

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«وأرى في الجدار ثُقبا أبيض، إنهُ المرآة. إنهُ فخ، وأنا أعلم أني سأتداعى لأسقط فيه. وقد حدث. لقد بدا لي الشيء الرمادي في المرآة، فأقترب لأنظر إليه، فيستحيل عليَّ حينها أن أغادر.

إنهُ إنعكاس وجهي. غالبا ما أبقى لأتأمله في هذه النهارات الضائعة، وأنا لا أفهم شيئا منه.. هذا الوجه. إن لوجهِ الآخرين معنى، أمّا وجهي.. فلا. بل أنا لا أستطيع أن أقرر هل هو جميلٌ أم قبيح. أعتقد أنهُ قبيح.. لأنهم قالوا لي ذلك. ذلك لا يثير إستغرابي، بل يصدمني في الحقيقة؛ أن يعزوا لهُ صفات من هذا النوع، كما لو كانوا يصفون بالجمال أو القبح، قطعة أرضٍ أو كتلة من صخر».

"Nenhuma regra moral genérica pode indicar o que devemos fazer; não existem sinais outorgados no mundo. Os católicos replicarão: "Mas claro que há sinais". Admitamos, sou eu mesmo, em todo caso, que escolho o significado que eles têm. Quando eu estava preso, conheci um homem impressionante, que era jesuíta. Ele tinha entrado na ordem da seguinte forma: havia passado por uma série de infortúnios bastante dolorosos; ainda criança, seu pai foi morto, deixando-o pobre. Ele foi recebido como bolsista em uma instituição religiosa onde constantemente lhe repetiam que ele tinha sido aceito por caridade; consequentemente, ele não recebeu muitas das distinções honoríficas com que as crianças são gratificadas; depois, por volta dos dezoito anos, - coisa pueril, mas que foi a gota d'água que fez o vaso transbordar - ele foi reprovado em sua preparação militar. Portanto, esse rapaz podia achar que tudo tinha dado errado para ele; era um sinal, mas um sinal de quê? Ele podia refugiar-se na amargura ou no desespero, mas avaliou, muito habilmente para seu próprio bem, que esse era o sinal de que ele não fora feito para os triunfos seculares, e que só os êxitos da religião, da santidade e da fé é que estavam ao seu alcance. Assim, viu nisso uma mensagem divina e ingressou nas ordens. Quem não vê que a decisão do sentido do sinal foi tomada exclusivamente por ele?"

The first crime was mine: I committed it when I made man mortal. Once I had done that, what was left for you, poor human murderers, to do? To kill your victims? But they already had the seed of death in them; all you could do was to hasten its fruition by a year or two.

There is no reality except in action. Man is nothing else than his plan; he exists only to the extent that he fulfills himself; he is therefore nothing else than the ensemble of his acts, nothing else than his life.

I get up. There is a white hole in the wall, a mirror. It is a trap. I know I am going to let myself be caught in it. I have. The grey thing appears in the mirror. I go over and look at it, I can no longer get away. It is the reflection of my face. Often in these lost days I study it. I can understand nothing of this face. The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so. But it doesn't strike me. At heart, I am even shocked that anyone can attribute qualities of this kind to it, as if you called a clod of earth or a block of stone beautiful or ugly.

I go to the window, I spot a fly under the curtain, I corner it in a muslin trap and move a murderous forefinger toward it. This moment is not in the program, it's something apart, timeless, incomparable, motionless, nothing will come of it this evening or later . . . Mankind is asleep. . . . Alone and without a future in a stagnant moment, a child is asking murder for strong sensations. Since I'm refused a man's destiny, I'll be the destiny of a fly. I don't rush matters, I'm letting it have time enough to become aware of the giant bending over it. I move my finger forward, the fly bursts, I'm foiled! Good God, I shouldn't have killed it! It was the only being in all creation that feared me; I no longer mean anything to anyone. I, the insecticide, take the victim's place and become an insect myself. I'm a fly, I've always been one. This time I've touched bottom.

My existence began to worry me seriously. Was I not a simple spectre?