Jean-Paul Sartre the Shitlib

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Europe in Ruins Once More

At the time of these events, Europe had hit an all-time low. Well, thinking back, there was the Black Plague and the Thirty Years’ War, but both of them had been beneficial to me, so they were excused. There was also the Great War of 1914, the sack of Constantinople, the fall of Rome and a couple of other skirmishes, but you get my point.

We had just had a full-scale war, where we nearly managed to wipe out the louse infestation called humankind from the surface of this gallstone of a planet, something that would have saved me a lot of trouble. I’ll tell you all about that another time.

I had reached the point where I no longer desired anything. All our plans had gone awry, and I felt more empty than I had in centuries. Yet Nirvana, liberation and equilibrium were nowhere to be found. I was still trapped in this wretched life.

The New Me

This was in the fall after the war, and I had, for obvious reasons, abandoned Germany. My escape route had sent me ping-ponging across Europe until I settled in Paris. I was roaming the boulevards and back alleys as a restless shadow of my former ruin, cast by the old world. Just when I needed it the least, I stumbled into the famous talk Jean-Paul Sartre gave at the Club Maintenant. My reason for being there and even paying for a ticket was both simple and complicated. Let’s say that I mistook the event for something else.

I had by now decided to fully live out my philosophy of life, pseudo-existentialism. Its main principle is that existence is bereft of all meaning, and this is an irreparable state we must embrace. It is the road to zero happiness, which is all we can ask for. Then comes this goddamn little grape stomper, this stinky little garlic cheese and tell me that we need to have faith in ourselves and our ability to create our own meaning and rule over our destiny.

Grape-Stompers Gather

The room was packed with Parisians, and in front of us stood the saddest-looking pair of philosophers I’ve ever laid my eyes upon, the gimp Sartre and his crone Simone de Beauvoir. What could such miserable people teach us about living the best life possible?

I nonetheless had some hope for the lecture due to its popularity, but my disappointment soon started to grow. Sartre spoke shortly on the beautiful subjects of the meaninglessness and hopelessness of life, albeit from the delusional perspective of an atheist and a socialist. Then, he leapt into the madness of his philosophy, based on faith in the individual and even in humanity.

Sartre could run his mouth. He threw around a lot of platitudes like optimism, commitment and liberation. He did (as far as I could understand his poppycock) make some pretty ludicrous remarks on suffering. As if it is something that can be overcome other than by extinction!

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Overall, the talk was wordy and intricate, but the tone was lighthearted. Where was the plumb line down into the existential depths? And the kneeling before the darkness that dwells there.

Sartre Under Siege

I will not torment you with more details of Sartre’s tedious talk that never ever seemed to end. Let’s march straight to the clou of the evening where he proudly proclaimed:

– Therefore, existentialism is a humanism!

I could not hold my silence. I shouted at him from the back of the room:

– Double or nothing! You humbug!

Sartre looked around, with his cockeye adding to the dumbfounded expression on his face.

– I’m sorry, what was that? Was there a question?

– No, there wasn’t a question. I made you an offer: Double or nothing!

– I am not sure that I am hearing you right, Monsieur.

I stood up so that he could address me.

– How can you not hear me with those elephant’s ears?

– What are you asking me?

– I am not asking you, Monsieur, I am telling you that your existentialism is utter shit! And my pseudo-existentialism is twice the humanism! Lice like you haven’t an inkling of the conditions of existence, what is being grilled on the glowing embers at the bottom of the pit and how to handle it. How to suck the bone marrow out of existentia futility and use it to garnish the Coeur de filet you have carved from the back of the primal whore Europe!

Being the mistress of the weakling Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir decided it was time for her to intervene. She turned to the audience:

– I suggest that we ignore that rude man. Are there any serious questions?

– Hey, lobotomite! Are you going to let Grandma do your talking?

A Hole in the Head

Now, other people in the audience, who for some reason took issue with my (absolutely valid) objections, started shouting back at me.

– Have you no manners, country bumpkin!

– Pseudo-existentialism! What on earth is that supposed to mean?

– Are you drunk, you Spanish cow?

Sartre himself chimed in with a silly grin on his face as if he was in a strong enough intellectual position to mock me:

– If it’s a pseudo-philosophy you have, then it should count as half of my existentialism rather than double! That’s my counteroffer to you, Monsieur.

– You are half, you Mickey Mouse fucker!

Sartre now started to plead, pathetically, to the audience:

– I think I speak for everyone when I say that you sound deluded, Monsieur. Nothing you have said makes any sense at all.

– Says the thinker who was trepanned. Was that to let out the brain farts?

Wrinkly flittermouse Simone de Beauvoir felt the need to meddle again:

– Why are you here? We are discussing important matters, and you do not contribute. I ask you to leave, Monsieur.

That was the final straw. I could not stop myself, but shouted with my best Nurembergian vocal fry:

– Kommunistische Bastarde! Existentialismus ist ein Humanismus, aber die Wurst ist zwei!

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Going Full German

That may have been a mistake. They all stared funny at me, and now I realised that I might not be appropriately dressed for the event. I hadn’t had time to pack much of my wardrobe from Wewelsburg. I still wore my high-rimmed Lederstiefel and a slightly smelly brown shirt under my long black leather coat. In my right hand, I held a short riding whip, which was practical to have on hand if you needed to fend off robbers or other low-lives. Paris was not safe at night.

The backlash from the audience escalated due to anti-German sentiment:

– Monsieur, are you a bloody German?

Then turned into mockery like:

– Excuse me, Mr Nazi, are we being invaded again? Remember, it did not end well for you last time.

Some brainiac hatched this insult, much to the amusement of Sartre’s unsophisticated minions:

– Why don’t you go back to Normandie, Nazi pig? Your comrades are sunbathing on the beach!

I tried to appeal to a slogan that was popular in the old days:

– Oh, come on, we are all European brothers and sisters here! Fraternite!

But they just booed me. I had no choice but to make it a class issue.

– Do you know that you are talking to a nobleman? I have a suggestion for you, Hébertist scum: why don’t you break one of your guillotines out of storage! That’s how you socialists deal with those who are above you by nature! Just cut my fucking head off, then!

That’s when croissants started flying my way, and the crowd was chanting:

– Nazi leave, Nazi leave!

As everyone turned on me, I had no other choice.

What took place that evening established my contempt for Sartre. It was not simply about his philosophy, which is abortive, but he was also a smug pseudo-Marxist and an obnoxious little louse. As for Simon de Beauvoir, she looked like his lesbian grandmother even then.

Besides, they did not know philosophy. If existentialism is a humanism, then its competitor, pseudo-existentialism, is double that. Not half, but double. If you care to know how it works, ask the inventor of this school of thought. Me. The father of pseudo-existentialism.

There Isn’t One

Once, in my days as a Zen novice, I got the brave but foolish impulse to put the banalest question to my beloved teacher, Master Fu. I half expected him to taunt me, hit me with his flute or spit on me. It would have been understandable if he did. Any of them would be a fair response to my stupidity and impudence.

– Master, is there a purpose to our existence? Other than the pursuit of superficial gratification, like status and worldly pleasures? Or the vague satisfaction of living a conventional life, believing that you add something of value to humanity’s anthill?

To my surprise, he did not ridicule me but climbed down from his high horse and spoke to me almost as if I were a fellow human being.

– I do not know of any such thing. I consider this life to be shit, mostly, and bereft of any deeper meaning. That which is good lies beyond our striving and our very consciousness. But if you happen to find that spring of happiness you imagine, please show me where, worm. I might jump into it.

– Then why are we here? if there is nothing worthwhile in life to strive for. Fu was still civil towards me. This was something that would fade with the years.

– That is the question. Seeing that life is shit and lacks purpose, except perhaps for crude biological reproduction, why indeed are we here? Forced to go through with it. We can build this ivory tower of wisdom and insight, but it is all impermanence, and in the end, none of it matters.

– Master, what is my lesson?

– You’ve got it. This is the kind of problem you should spend your time here contemplating. You won’t find an answer because there isn’t one. Life is shit, and shit is never anything but shit.

– But Master, is there no beauty in this world?

He had to think about that for a while. He sounded sad when he answered.

– Beauty there is, for what it is worth in this cruel world. That makes it something more than nothing, I suppose.

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