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Douglas Naturesartresexistentialism 1947
Douglas Naturesartresexistentialism 1947
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The Virginia Quarterly Review
II
probably not have gone out to look at houses, for you know
what a house is. And that is the goal: to describe, to get to
know, explicitly, what we knew already but could not put into
words. The test of other men's labors in this field can only be an
appeal to your own experience. Does it corroborate what they
say? If not, all argument is over before it can begin. Experience
has the first and last word.
Ill
and completely. It does not "look before and after, And sig
for what is not." It just is, and its most typical form is the soli
contrasted with the hollow living individual, fleeing from th
present and trying to become the non-existent future. He
a for-self, conscious of himself and so divided against himself
Even if he achieves his ambition, becoming the essential se
he has projected, Celia's husband, for example, the author of a
best-seller, the champion tree-sitter of Little Rock, he fin
that a goal attained is a goal no longer. Like the traveler w
has struggled to reach a point on the horizon, he beholds
fresh vista ahead, separated by new, wearisome miles.
Discouraged by this insatiable desire which goads him on
further exertions, anguished, too, by the necessity of making
a choice, life's traveler tries to find a way out. He may de
that he is free to choose, and accept the authority of a party
a church, or blame his condition on an all-powerful heredi
"What can I do? My father was a drinker." But this is a choic
also, and he never quite succeeds in hiding the fact from h
self. Sartre asserts that not even the lunatic is entirely fooled
by his imaginings; if he were, why should it be dangerous to s
gest that he is not really God Almighty? Sartre calls this
tempted self-deception bad faith.
So men envy the simple, undivided presence of the objec
They try to imitate the deadliness of the hurled stone or t
raging fury of the forest fire. But by the word "object" Sart
does not understand alone a thing in three dimensions. An
thing is an object that can be an object of thought, that we c
be conscious of. And there is one supreme object luring a m
astray: not the stone or forest fire, but his own past. He trie
—it seems an easy task—to identify himself with his past. Th
shell-shocked soldier returns to his early childhood. The m
who failed several times may try, by failing again and aga
to be a failure. The little fellow repeatedly told he is a "b
boy" sets out to be a bad boy in a big way, an "essential" w
These attempts are futile, Sartre declares. The object do
not exist for itself, since it has no consciousness. The hum
IV
hard work, good works, or the search for efficiency, for better
techniques. It is a recall to ourselves, and may be presented as the
voice of conscience (Heidegger does so, in a few moving
pages). The way back does not necessarily involve the abandon
ment of activity, or introspection: the same amusements, hard
work, et cetera, may offer the means, provided that we see them
as functions of our own selves, and ourselves as centers for sift
ing, rejecting, accepting, and co-ordinating them. Provided,
above all, that we keep on asking why, why, and why again,
until this childlike repetition grown unbearable drives us to
make the reply beyond all logic and debate, the existential: "Be
cause I choose to do so!" In these centuries that have witnessed
the rise of science and the expansion of industrialism, economic
man, biological man, social man, and many other impostors have
made us forget man. Existentialism is a crusade on behalf of
forgotten man, of the man who feels, and thinks, and does,
against man as an object to be tested for aptitude and achieve
ments, tabulated on charts and reduced to a punch card, experi
mented upon, causally explained away, utilized, fired, junked,
liquidated, cremated, or atomized. Sartre has begun to play his
part, to write his part, in this project. In view of certain fast
spreading misconceptions, the preceding paragraphs have sought
to characterize his basic attitude. But when his works at last
become available (and by what else should Sartre be judged?),
it will be found, perhaps, that his greatest gifts are not lavished
on philosophical abstractions, even the relatively concrete ab
stractions of an existentialist philosophy; that his greatest claim
to creative originality lies in plays and novels with their bold
immediacy of an imagined real life, wherein essences struggle to
free themselves from the utter contingency of existence, in
order to stamp upon existence their own image.