Being and Nothingness

My sleep continues to be troubled by odd dreams. Last night I dreamt that I was a beetle, clinging to the slick surface of a water-soaked log as it careened down a rain-swollen stream toward a waterfall. A figure appeared on the horizon, and as the log drew closer I could see that it was Camus. He held out a hand and I desperately reached for it with my tiny feeler. Just as the log drew abreast of Camus he suddenly wihdrew his hand, swooped it through his hair and sneered "Too slow," adding superfluously: "Psych."

It is my belief that the log symbolizes the precariousness of Existence, while the tiny feeler represents Man's essential powerlessness. And Camus represents Camus, that fatuous ninny.

Idea for a play: A man goes to sleep, and when he awakes he finds himself working in a Kinko's. Although the doors are fully operable, and in fact open and close to admit a variety of patrons, the man himself may not leave, because every time he approaches the exit he finds his steps slowing, his breath coming shallower, and a terrible sleepiness descends upon him. Even in this state, however, he finds himself able to ignore the customers' plaintive requests for assistance. Eventually a character I shall call "Jeff, the Night Manager" arrives and drapes a raincoat over him.

If Man exists, God cannot exist, because God's omniscience would reduce Man to an object. And if Man is merely an object, why then must I pay the onerous fees levied on overdue balances by M. Pelletier at the patisserie? At least this was the argument I raised this morning with M. Pelletier. He seemed unconvinced and produced his huge loutish son Gilles from the back, ominously brandishing a large pastry roller. The pastry roller existed, I can tell you that.

The laughter of the children in the streets this morning filled me with a great sadness. Later it turned to anger when I found that they had been laughing extra loudly to cover the sound of the hacksaw as it bit remorselessly through my bicycle lock, like the blade of Death slicing through the fragile flesh of Life.

Possessions are meaningless. And yet I loved that bicycle.

An American news anchor named Kyra Phillips called me this morning for a comment on the difficulties in the world financial markets. "Being is," I told her. "Being is in-itself. Being is what it is." There were then about 45 seconds of silence down the line, followed by the words: "Um... 'Kay. Thanks." And then a dial tone.

Futility.

S. convinced me to leave my work behind for an evening and take dinner in a restaurant. We walked to an intimate bistro in the Marais. "To eat is to appropriate by destruction," I told her as we were seated.

"You know," she said, "if you wanted to stay home and eat off TV trays again you should have just said so."

Words are loaded pistols.

A year ago, in a moment of weakness, I allowed my American literary representative to sell one of my books to a film company for what was described as "a feature-length documentary." Yesterday I received a packet of publicity materials for a film titled "JOHNNY SART: PD SQUAD." The subtitle, or "tag line," was "NO BADGE. NO GUN. NO EXIT." A series of Transatlantic telephone calls followed. Apparently I am unable to have my name removed from this abomination, but I will receive what is called a "Co-Producer" credit.

Life is a bleak festival of betrayals and disappointments.

I was awakened this morning by the sound of an insistent knocking at my door. It was a man in a brown suit. He seemed to be in a hurry, as if Death itself were pursuing him.

"One always dies too soon -- or too late," I told him. "And yet one's whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are -- your life, and nothing else."

"Okay," he said. "But I'm just the UPS guy."

"Oh," I said. "I-- Oh."

"Sign here," he said.

"I thought you were a harbinger of Death," I told him.

"I get that a lot," he said, peering down at the place on the clipboard where I had signed. "Spell your last name?"

"S-A-R-T-R-E," I said.

"Have a nice day," he said.

A nice day. How utterly banal.

The American presidential candidate John McCain was scheduled to pay me a courtesy call today. At the last moment he telephoned to cancel, explaining that he had to fly to Washington immediately to direct legislative efforts to avert catastrophe in the financial markets. A few minutes later my publisher called to say that he had spotted McCain eating croquembouche in the Rive Gauche with that ninny Camus.

Hell is other people.

This morning over breakfast S. asked me why I looked so glum.

"Because," I said, "everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident."

"Jesus," S. said. "Aren't you ever off the clock?"

Theorem: God does not exist because the concept of God entails self-contradiction. Besides, no omnipotent Being could possibly have created the Broussard children from #13. Those are some unfortunate-looking garçons et filles, I can tell you. The little one has a face like a raclette.

Let the bourgeois have their so-called "day of rest"! I shall continue to strive, to think, for in work alone is Man's purpose. This is what the bourgeoisie seem never to understand. Especially that lout M. Picard from #11. Every day is a "day of rest" for that tête de mouton. How I wish he did did not have his Citroën up on blocks in the front yard! Appearances are without meaning, but still, it does not look nice.