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Quote by Jean-Paul Sartre

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Existentialism is a Humanism

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Jean-Paul Sartre
Jean-Paul Sartre

Jean-Paul Sartre was a French philosopher, writer, and playwright, born on June 21, 1905, and died on April 15, 1980. He is considered one of the most important philosophers of the 20th century, renowned for his existentialist philosophy. Sartre's works spanned across philosophy, literature, and drama, and had a profound impact on later generations. more

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“Cada item de sua casa abrigava memórias das quais ela era então a única detentora. Ela me contou que todos os instrumentos seriam distribuídos a estrangeiros que jamais saberiam suas histórias ou os apreciariam como ela. E, um dia,sua própria morte apagaria, por fim, todas as ricas memórias incrustadas na espineta, no violoncelo, nas flautas, nos flautins e em muitos outros instrumentos. Seu passado sucumbiria juntamente com ela. (...) Agora ela sabia realmente que também era transitória, apenas de passagem pela casa, assim como todos os moradores anteriores. E a casa também era transitória e iria desaparecer algum dia para dar lugar a outra no mesmo terreno. O processo de abrir mão de seus bens e de se mudar foi uma experiência reveladora para Alice, que sempre havia se abrigado na ilusão confortável e acalentadora de uma vida ricamente mobiliada e atapetada. Agora ela aprendia que o luxo das posses materiais a havia protegido da esterilidade da existência.”

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“Philip dobló, caminó junto al puerto de embarcaciones deportivas; luego atravesó Chrissy Field hasta llegar a la bahía y bordeó la orilla del Pacífico, donde las olas serenas que rompían en la playa y el atemporal aroma salino del mar lo serenaron.Tiritó y se abotonó la chaqueta. En la menguante luz del día, el viento frío del Pacífico atravesaba el Golden Gate y pasaba por su lado a toda velocidad, así como las horas de su vida eternamente pasarían, raudas, sin proporcionarle calor ni placer. El viento presagiaba la escarcha de interminables días futuros, días glaciales en los que se levantaría de la cama sin esperanza de que el porvenir le deparara un hogar, amor, contacto de piel, alegría. La mansión de pensamiento puro que había erigido era helada. Qué extraño que no lo hubiera notado antes. Siguió adelante, pero con la tenue certidumbre de que su casa, su vida entera, se había construido sobre cimientos endebles y falsos”

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“Cada manhã, antes mesmo de abrir os olhos, ela reconhecia sua cama, seu quarto. Mas, às vezes, quando dormia de tarde, experimentava ao acordar aquela estupefação pueril: por que eu sou eu? Como se a consciência, emergindo despercebida do sono, hesitasse antes de se reencarnar. O que a surpreendia — como a criança quando toma consciência de sua própria identidade — era se encontrar no âmago de sua própria vida e não na de outra pessoa: por qual acaso? Ela poderia não ter nascido: então não teria havido questão. “Eu poderia ter sido uma outra, mas então teria sido uma outra que se interrogaria sobre si.” Isto lhe provocava a vertigem de sentir de uma só vez sua contingência e a necessária coincidência com sua história.”

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“That night over sushi, Rayya launched into the most incredible of tales. She told me that the last time she was home in Detroit, some of her friends and family members had staged a reverse intervention, gathering together to tell her that they really, really wanted her to start drinking wine. Apparently Rayya’s loved ones back in Detroit had claimed that they longed to be able to share a nice bottle of wine with her sometimes—just as they shared wine with everyone else. Why should she miss out on a glass of wine, they said, especially in a sophisticated or celebratory setting? Especially because she was such a foodie, who appreciated delicious things! They’d also apparently reported that they hated seeing her trapped forever in the disgraceful old label of “addict,” when she had not used drugs for so long and was clearly cured of her addiction. At what point would it end—this shameful burden of always having to call oneself an addict? It was as if Rayya were being forced to wear a scarlet letter! She was a completely different person now than she had been twenty years ago! Why must she continue to be exiled from the pleasant experience of adult beverages, like some kind of child? Why must she remain an outsider? If anything, it made them feel uncomfortable when she didn’t drink. “Come, now,” had said these loving—and curiously unnamed—people. “Just have one drink of wine with us! Try it! It won’t do you any harm!” “So I did have just one glass of wine,” confessed Rayya. “And it was really nice! And it didn’t do me any harm. So what I want to tell you is this, even though it terrifies me to say it: I would like to start having a glass of wine with you sometimes at dinner. But I’m so afraid to bring it up, because I’m afraid you’ll condemn me for it, and I’ll lose you!” “You could never lose me, honey!” I said. “Never in life!” And, because I’ve always been a sucker for grand gestures of loyalty, I said, “In fact, let’s order you a glass of wine right now!” and I immediately called over the waiter.”

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