Quotes from Jean-Paul Sartre

cette liberté, je l'ai cherchée bien loin ; elle était si proche que je ne pouvais la voir, que je ne peux pas la toucher, elle n'était que moi.

This feeling of adventure definitely does not come from events: I have proved it. It's rather the way in which the moments are linked together.

It is the reflection of my face. Often in these lost days I study it. I can understand nothing of this face. The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not Mine.

Dehors. Dehors. Hors du monde, hors du passé, hors de moi-même : la liberté c'est l'éxil et je suis condamné à être libre.

Människohopen glesnade, man hörde tydligt havets brus. En ung kvinna, som stödde båda händerna mot balustraden, lyfte ansiktet mot himlen, ett blått ansikte med ett svart tvärstreck, de målade läpparna. Jag undrade ett ögonblick om jag inte skulle älska människorna. Men när allt kom omkring var det deras söndag och inte min.

she has suddenly emptied herself of me, and all other consciousness in the world has also emptied itself of me. It seems funny. Yet I know that I exist, that I am here. Now

His thought is both optimistic and anguished. It is anguished because he sees that we are sentenced by our freedom, imprisoned by it (since it makes us afraid); optimistic because Sartre believed that we are truly free and can indeed make free choices.

And just what is Antoine Roquentin? An abstraction. A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness. Antoine Roquentin . . . and suddenly the "I" pales, pales, and fades out. Lucid

I do not even have to discuss the justice of the reproach. As Suzanne says to Figaro, To prove that I am right would be to recognize that I can be wrong.

But a big or little rascal? I don't have a high enough opinion of historical research to lose my time over a dead man whose hand, if he were alive, I would not deign to touch. What do I know about him? You couldn't dream of a better life than his: but did he live it? If only his letters weren't so formal. . . . Ah

All children are mirrors of death

And here is the sense of its existence: it is conscious of being superfluous. It dilutes, scatters itself, tries to lose itself on the brown wall, along the lamp post or down there in the evening mist. But it never forgets itself. That is its lot.

ölümü hiç düÅŸünmemiÅŸtim, çünkü böyle bir f?rsat olmam??t?, ama ÅŸimdi f?rsat vard? ve bunu düÅŸünmek dururken neden baÅŸka ÅŸeyler yapmal?yd??

Bugünkü aÅŸamada, mevcut düÅŸünme yöntemlerimizle, bir düÅŸüncenin bir nesne kar??s?ndaki aç?l?m? yaln?zl??? öngörmektedir.

Bir an hayat?m? yarg?lamaya kalkt?m. Kendi kendime 'güzel bir hayatt?' demek isterdim. Ama bir yarg?ya varam?yordu insan, bu bir taslakt?. Zaman?m? ölümsüzlük için uÄŸraÅŸmakla geçirmiÅŸim, bir ÅŸey anlamam???m. ...

Eût-il vécu, mon père se fût couché sur moi de tout son long et m'eût écrasé.

Natten har kommit in, sötaktig, tvekande. Man ser den inte, men den finns där, den beslöjar lamporna; man andas in någonting tjockt i luften: det är den. (s. 55)

Jag kastade en ängslig blick runt omkring mig: nuet, ingenting annat än nuet. [...] Nuets verkliga natur rörde sig: det var det som existerade och allt som inte var nuet existerade inte. Det förflutna existerade inte. (s.172)

Concha ölümümü öÄŸrenince aÄŸlayacakt?. Aylarca içinden yaÅŸamak isteÄŸi gelmeyecekti. Ama ölecek olan bendim. ...

Optimisme wil beslist niet zeggen dat wordt verkondigd hoe gelukkig de mens is of zou kunnen zijn, maar eenvoudig dat zijn lijden niet voor niets is. Als de wereld slechts was geschapen om in haar ondergang een laatste lichtflits te zijn voor een paar blinde ogen, zelfs dan zou die ondergang nog zin hebben gehad.

But what a poor lie: no one has any rights; they are entirely free, like other men, they cannot succeed in not feeling superfluous. And in themselves, secretly, they are superfluous, that is to say, amorphous, vague, and sad. How

I've read that there are travellers who have changed physically and morally to such an extent that even their closest relatives did not recognize them when they came back.

Amerikanvari haz?rlanm?? ?stakozu sevip sevmemekte özgürüm, ama insanlar? sevmiyorsam bir zavall?y?m ve gün ?????nda bana yer yok. ...

De boeken van Genet zijn bordelen, waarin je door een kiertje naar binnen glipt, in de hoop dat je er niemand zult tegenkomen; zodra je binnen bent, blijk je volstrekt alleen te zijn.