NINEâSartre: EXISTENTIALISM
[Preface: Jean-Paul Sartre was born in Paris in 1905. His short story âThe Wallâ is one of the classics of existentialism. It is reprinted unabridged. A brief analysisâof the following selections, tooâis offered in Chapter One.
âSelf-Deceptionâ is an important chapter of Sartreâs major philosophic work, LâĂȘtre et le nĂ©ant. It is also offered unabridged, in the translation of Hazel Barnes; but I have changed her translation of mauvaise foi, which she renders âbad faith.â âSelf-deceptionâ seems much more accurate to me, and this is also how Philip Mairet has translated the same phrase in the final selection. The price I have had to pay for this changeâand I think it was amply worth itâis that the contrast between âself-deceptionâ and âgood faithâ is a bit less neat, and that the title of section III, âThe âFaithâ of Self Deception,â no longer sounds like a play on words. That may be just as well, for Sartreâs thought here does not all depend on the words. He himself is, of course, quite aware of this and soon speaks of âbeliefâ (croyance) instead of âfaithâ (foi). In view of the many paradoxes he offers, it may be well to call attention to this passage, toward the end of section II: âthere is a sincerity which bears on the past and which does not concern us here....Here our concern is only with the sincerity which aims at itself in present immanence.â
The âPortrait of the Anti-Semiteâ represents a slightly abridged version of the first part of RĂ©flexions sur la question Juive.
Existentialism is a Humanism is Mairetâs translation of Sartreâs famous lecture, Lâexistentialisme est un humanisme (1946), unabridged. It has been published in England as Existentialism and Humanism, in the United States as Existentialism, and in Germany with the title 1st der Existenzialismus ein Humanismus? It has been widely mistaken for the definitive statement of existentialism, but is a brilliant lecture which bears the stamp of the moment. According to Genesis and Kierkegaard, it was not an angel that âcommanded Abraham to sacrifice his sonâ; more important, Jaspers is not a professed Catholic; and the definition of existentialism and many of the arguments invite criticism. Plainly, this is not the alpha and omega of existentialism, but it is eminently thought-provoking, and you can almost hear Sartre talk.]
1. The Wall
They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls; they looked alike. I supposed they were French. The smaller one kept hitching up his pants; nerves.
It lasted about three hours; I was dizzy and my head was empty; but the room was well heated and I found that pleasant enough: for the past 24 hours we hadnât stopped shivering. The guards brought the prisoners up to the table, one after the other. The four men asked each one his name and occupation. Most of the time they didnât go any furtherâor they would simply ask a question here and there: âDid you have anything to do with the sabotage of munitions?â Or âWhere were you the morning of the 9th and what were you doing?â They didnât listen to the answers or at least didnât seem to. They were quiet for a moment and then looking straight in front of them began to write. They asked Tom if it were true he was in the International Brigade; Tom couldnât tell them otherwise because of the papers they found in his coat. They didnât ask Juan anything but they wrote for a long time after he told them his name.
âMy brother Jose is the anarchist,â Juan said, âyou know he isnât here anymore. I donât belong to any party, I never had anything to do with politics.â
They didnât answer. Juan went on, âI havenât done anything. I donât want to pay for somebody else.â
His lips trembled. A guard shut him up and took him away. It was my turn.
âYour name is Pablo Ibbieta?â
âYes.â
The man looked at the papers and asked me, âWhereâs Ramon Gris?â
âI donât know.â
âYou hid him in your house from the 6th to the 19th.â
âNo.â
They wrote for a minute and then the guards took me out. In the corridor Tom and Juan were waiting between two guards. We started walking. Tom asked one of the guards, âSo?â
âSo what?â the guard said.
âWas that the cross-examination or the sentence?â
âSentence,â the guard said.
âWhat are they going to do with us?â
The guard answered dryly, âSentence will be read in your cell.â
As a matter of fact, our cell was one of the hospital cellars. It was terrifically cold there because of the drafts. We shivered all night and it wasnât much better during the day. I had spent the previous five days in a cell in a monastery, a sort of hole in the wall that must have dated from the middle ages: since there were a lot of prisoners and not much room, they locked us up anywhere. I didnât miss my cell; I hadnât suffered too much from the cold but I was alone; after a long time it gets irritating. In the cellar I had company. Juan hardly ever spoke: he was afraid and he was too young to have anything to say. But Tom was a good talker and he knew Spanish well.
There was a bench in the cellar and four mats. When they took us back we sat and waited in silence. After a long moment, Tom said, âWeâre screwed.â
âI think so too,â I said, âbut I donât think theyâll do anything to the kid.â
âThey donât have a thing against him,â said Tom. âHeâs the brother of a militiaman and thatâs all.â
I looked at Juan: he didnât seem to hear. Tom went on, âYou know what they do in Saragossa? They lay the men down on the road and run over them with trucks. A Moroccan deserter told us that. They said it was to save ammunition.â
âIt doesnât save gas,â I said.
I was annoyed at Tom: he shouldnât have said that.
âThen thereâs officers walking along the road,â he went on, âsupervising it all. They stick their hands in their pockets and smoke cigarettes. You think they finish off the guys? Hell no. They let them scream. Sometimes for an hour. The Moroccan said he damned near puked the first time.â
âI donât believe theyâll do that here,â I said. âUnless theyâre really short on ammunition.â
Day was coming in through four airholes and a round opening they had made in the ceiling on the left, and you could see the sky through it. Through this hole, usually closed by a trap, they unloaded coal into the cellar. Just below the hole there was a big pile of coal dust; it had been used to heat the hospital, but since the beginning of the war the patients were evacuated and the coal stayed there, unused; sometimes it even got rained on because they had forgotten to close the trap.
Tom began to shiver. âGood Jesus Christ, Iâm cold,â he said. âHere it goes again.â
He got up and began to do exercises. At each movement his shirt opened on his chest, white and hairy. He lay on his back, raised his legs in the air and bicycled. I saw his great rump trembling. Tom was husky but he had too much fat. I thought how rifle bullets or the sharp points of bayonets would soon be sunk into this mass of tender flesh as in a lump of butter. It wouldnât have made me feel like that if heâd been thin.
I wasnât exactly cold, but I couldnât feel my arms and shoulders anymore. Sometimes I had the impression I was missing something and began to look around for my coat and then suddenly remembered they hadnât given me a coat. It was rather uncomfortable. They took our clothes and gave them to their soldiers leaving us only our shirtsâand those canvas pants that hospital patients wear in the middle of summer. After a while Tom got up and sat next to me, breathing heavily.
âWarmer?â
âGood Christ, no. But Iâm out of wind.â
Around eight oâclock in the evening a major came in with two falangistas. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. He asked the guard, âWhat are the names of those three?â
âSteinbock, Ibbieta and Mirbal,â the guard said.
The major put on his eyeglasses and scanned the list: âSteinbock...Steinbock...Oh yes...You are sentenced to death. You will be shot tomorrow morning.â He went on looking. âThe other two as well.â
âThatâs not possible,â Juan said. âNot me.â
The major looked at him amazed. âWhatâs your name?â âJuan Mirbal,â he said.
âWell, your name is there,â said the major. âYouâre sentenced.â
âI didnât do anything,â Juan said.
The major shrugged his shoulders and turned to Tom and me.
âYouâre Basque?â
âNobody is Basque.â
He looked annoyed. âThey told me there were three Basques. Iâm not going to waste my time running after them. Then naturally you donât want a priest?â
We didnât even answer.
He said, âA Belgian doctor is coming shortly. He is authorized to spend the night with you.â He made a military salute and left.
âWhat did I tell you,â Tom said. âWe get it.â
âYes,â I said, âitâs a rotten deal for the kid.â
I said that to be decent but I didnât like the kid. His face was too thin and fear and suffering had disfigured it, twisting all his features. Three days before he was a smart sort of kid, not too bad; but now he looked like an old fairy and I thought how heâd never be young again, even if they were to let him go. It wouldnât have been too hard to have a little pity for him but pity disgusts me, or rather it horrifies me. He hadnât said anything more but he had turned grey; his face and hands were both grey. He sat down again and looked at the ground with round eyes. Tom was good hearted, he wanted to take his arm, but the kid tore himself away violently and made a face.
âLet him alone,â I said in a low voice, âyou can see heâs going to blubber.â
Tom obeyed regretfully; he would have liked to comfort the kid, it would have passed his time and he wouldnât have been tempted to think about himself. But it annoyed me: Iâd never thought about death because I never had any reason to, but now the reason was here and there was nothing to do but think about it.
Tom began to talk. âSo you think youâve knocked guys off, do you?â he asked me. I didnât answer. He began explaining to me that he had knocked off six since the beginning of August; he didnât realize the situation and I could tell he didnât want to realize it. I hadnât quite realized it myself, I wondered if it hurt much, I thought of bullets, I imagined their burning hail through my body. All that was beside the real question; but I was calm: we had all night to understand. After a while Tom stopped talking and I watched him out of the corner of my eye; I saw he too had turned grey and he looked rotten; I told myself âNow it starts.â It was almost dark, a dim glow filtered through the airholes and the pile of coal and made a big stain beneath the spot of sky; I could already see a star through the hole in the ceiling: the night would be pure and icy.
The door opened and two guards came in, followed by a blonde man in a tan uniform. He saluted us. âI am the doctor,â he said. âI have authorization to help you in these trying hours.â
He had an agreeable and distinguished voice. I said, âWhat do you want here?â
âI am at your disposal. I shall do all I can to make your last moments less difficult.â
âWhat did you come here for? There are others, the hospitalâs full of them.â
âI was sent here,â he answered with a vague look. âAh! Would you like to smoke?â he added hurriedly, âI have cigarettes and even cigars.â
He offered us English cigarettes and puros, but we refused. I looked him in the eyes and he seemed irritated. I said to him, âYou arenât here on an errand of mercy. Besides, I know you. I saw you with the fascists in the barracks yard the day I was arrested.â
I was going to continue, but something surprising suddenly happened to me; the presence of this doctor no longer interested me. Generally when Iâm on somebody I donât let go. But the desire to talk left me completely; I shrugged and turned my eyes away. A little later I raised my head; he was watching me curiously. The guards were sitting on a mat. Pedro, the tall thin one, was twiddling his thumbs, the other shook his head from time to time to keep from falling asleep.
âDo you want a light?â Pedro suddenly asked the doctor. The other nodded âYesâ: I think he was about as smart as a log, but he surely wasnât bad. Looking in his cold blue eyes it seemed to me that his only sin was lack of imagination. Pedro went out and came back with an oil lamp which he set on the corner of the bench. It gave a bad light but it was better than nothing: they had left us in the dark the night before. For a long time I watched the circle of light the lamp made on the ceiling. I was fascinated. Then suddenly I woke up, the circle of light disappeared and I felt myself crushed under an enormous weight. It was not the thought of death, or fear; it was nameless. My cheeks burned and my head ached.
I shook myself and looked at my two friends. Tom had hidden his face in his hands. I could only see the fat white nape of his neck. Little Juan was the worst, his mouth was open and his nostrils trembled. The doctor went to him and put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him: but his eyes stayed cold. Then I saw the Belgianâs hand drop stealthily along Juanâs arm, down to the wrist. Juan paid no attention. The Belgian took his wrist between three fingers, distractedly, the same time drawing back a little and turning his back to me. But I leaned backward and saw him take a watch from his pocket and look at it for a moment, never letting go of the wrist. After a minute he let the hand fall inert and went and leaned his back against the wall, then, as if he suddenly remembered something very important which had to be jotted down on the spot, he took a notebook from his pocket and wrote a few lines. âBastard,â I thought angrily, âlet him come and take my pulse. Iâll shove my fist in his rotten face.â
He didnât come but I felt him watching me. I raised my head and returned his look. Impersonally, he said to me, âDoesnât it seem cold to you here?â He looked cold, he was blue.
âIâm not cold,â I told him.
He never took his hard eyes off me. Suddenly I understood and my hands went to my face: I was drenched in sweat. In this cellar, in the midst of winter, in the midst of drafts, I was sweating. I ran my hands through my hair, gummed together with perspiration; at the same time I saw my shirt was damp and sticking to my skin: I had been dripping for an hour and hadnât felt it. But that swine of a Belgian hadnât missed a thing; he had seen the drops rolling down my cheeks and thought: this is the manifestation of an almost pathological state of terror; and he had felt normal and proud of being alive because he was cold. I wanted to stand up and smash his face but no sooner had I made the slightest gesture than my rage and shame were wiped out; I fell back on the bench with indifference.
I satisfied myself by rubbing my neck with my handkerchief because now I felt the sweat dropping from my hair onto my neck and it was unpleasant. I soon gave up rubbing, it was useless; my handkerchief was already soaked and I was still sweating. My buttocks were sweating too and my damp trousers were glued to the bench.
Suddenly Juan spoke. âYouâre a doctor?â
âYes,â the Belgian said.
âDoes it hurt...very long?â
âHuh? When...? Oh, no,â the Belgian said paternally. âNot at all. Itâs over quickly.â He acted as though he were calming a cash customer.
âBut I...they told me...sometimes they have to fire twice.â
âSometimes,â the Belgian said, nodding. âIt may happen that the first volley reaches no vital organs.â
âThen they have to reload their rifles and aim all over again?â He thought for a moment and then added hoarsely, âThat takes time!â
He had a terrible fear of suffering, it was all he thought about: it was his age. I never thought much about it and it wasnât fear of suffering that made me sweat.
I got up and walked to the pile of coal dust. Tom jumped up and threw me a hateful look: I had annoyed him because my shoes squeaked. I wondered if my face looked as frightened as his: I saw he was sweating too. The sky was superb, no light filtered into the dark corner and I had only to raise my head to see the Big Dipper. But it wasnât like it had been: the night before I could see a great piece of sky from my monastery cell and each hour of the day brought me a different memory. Morning, when the sky was a hard, light blue, I thought of beaches on the Atlantic; at noon I saw the sun and I remembered a bar in Seville where I drank manzanilla and ate olives and anchovies; afternoons I was in the shade and I thought of the deep shadow which spreads over half a bull-ring leaving the other half shimmering in sunlight; it was really hard to see the whole world reflected in the sky like that. But now I could watch the sky as much as I pleased, it no longer evoked anything in me. I liked that better. I came back and sat near Tom. A long moment passed.
Tom began speaking in a low voice. He had to talk, without that he wouldnât have been able to recognize himself in his own mind. I thought he was talking to me but he wasnât looking at me. He was undoubtedly afraid to see me as I was, grey and sweating: we were alike and worse than mirrors of each other. He watched the Belgian, the living.
âDo you understand?â he said. âI donât understand.â I began to speak in a low voice too. I watched the Belgian. âWhy? Whatâs the matter?â
âSomething is going to happen to us that I canât understand.â
There was a strange smell about Tom. It seemed to me I was more sensitive than usual to odors. I grinned. âYouâll understand in a while.â
âIt isnât clear,â he said obstinately. âI want to be brave but first I have to know...Listen, theyâre going to take us into the courtyard. Good. Theyâre going to stand up in front of us. How many?â
âI donât know. Five or eight. Not more.â
âAll right. Thereâll be eight. Someoneâll holler âaim!â and Iâll see eight rifles looking at me. Iâll think how Iâd like to get inside the wall, Iâll push against it with my back...with every ounce of strength I have, but t...