Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre was a French philosopher, playwright, novelist, screenwriter, political activist, biographer, and literary critic, considered a leading figure in 20th-century French philosophy and Marxism. Sartre was one of the key figures in the philosophy of existentialism (and phenomenology). His work has influenced sociology, critical theory, post-colonial theory, and literary studies. He was awarded the 1964 Nobel Prize in Literature despite attempting to refuse it, saying that he always declined official honors and that "a writer should not allow himself to be turned into an institution." Sartre held an open relationship with prominent feminist and fellow existentialist philosopher Simone de Beauvoir. Together, Sartre and de Beauvoir challenged the cultural and social assumptions and expectations of their upbringings, which they considered bourgeois, in both lifestyles and thought. The conflict between oppressive, spiritually destructive conformity (mauvaise foi, literally, 'bad faith') and an "authentic" way of "being" became the dominant theme of Sartre's early work, a theme embodied in his principal philosophical work Being and Nothingness (L'Être et le Néant, 1943). Sartre's introduction to his philosophy is his work Existentialism Is a Humanism (L'existentialisme est un humanisme, 1946), originally presented as a lecture.
Oubliez “Qu’est-ce que la littérature?” ce plaidoyer maudit de l’après-guerre pour une ‘littérature engagée’ (Situations II)
Lisez plutôt ces essais critiques de “jeunesse” dans lesquels Sartre se penche sur les romans de Blanchot, Mauriac, Kafka, Camus, Dos Passos et Faulkner.
Ils sont lucides et didactiques, parfois drôles et parfois exaspérants.
took me forever to read because every fifth line would make me put the book down and marvel at the world around me
some of my favourite lines!
...this very simple truth that is so poorly understood by our finest minds: if we love a woman, it is because she is lovable.
in vain would we seek, (like) a child kissing her own shoulder, the caresses and fondlings of a private intimacy, since, at long last, everything is outside. it is outside, in the world, among others. it is not in some lonely refuge that we shall discover ourselves, but on the road, in the town, in the crowd, as a thing among things and a human being among human beings.
a novel is written by a human being for human beings. in the eyes of god, who sees through appearances and does not linger on them, there is no novel and there is no art.
for man isn't rolled up inside himself, but is outside, always outside, between earth and sky.