The War Diaries of Jean-Paul Sartre

Examining The War Diaries of Jean Paul Sartre or

The longest entry…EVER!

I picked this book off the shelf by happenstance as I meandered through the local library looking for an open computer to check the catalog for some other flight of fancy. This process is often my downfall and the main reason my books in queue box is often static. Casting a glance in a certain direction while at the library is leaving yourself open to the play of your imagination and desires. The presentation and freedom of information openly offered tends to leave me staggering out the front doors with books tucked in up under my nose that I will never get the chance to read without checking the renewal box at least twice. In the past few days, I realized that the hours of freedom slipping by seemed to be travelling down a siphon. The words of seestore, to read what I can now because once school begins there won’t be any time, began to increase their font in my mind. Right about now they’re SCREAMING out of sheer panic.

So there I was, attempting to read some seven or so books at the same time. I’d divvy out a chapter here and a chapter there on alternating nights. There never was a true system to the madness. The bookmarks seemed to be moving on their own, wedging themselves closer and closer to the back cover of each work. The majority of the books were LIS related, each shelling out their own take on the ins and outs of introducing the major aspects of Library and Information Science. But the Diaries transported me out of my bed, back in time and threw me into situations with my favorite philosopher. There we were, both a little miffed by the circumstances of war, both wondering about our own inadequacies — and discovering that we share a healthy number of attributes.

While reading, I jotted in my own little black book.

As the notebook has progressed, the tone of his voice has shifted. What started as a steady certainty has now come coupled with a shade of fear – as the approaching war drums begin to make themselves known. The entries become more dispersed – infrequent – brief – but still notable.

Sartre on Journal writing

Funny to read Sartre commenting on Gide’s journal – there are revelatory moments for the both of us. Sartre’s journal becomes an exercise – a purging – or as he says in notebook 3, p69

“[...] this journal is a calling into question of myself [...] I don’t do this calling into question with groans and humility, but coldly and in order to move forward. Nothing of what I write is an act, in the sense in which I was speaking of Gide’s acts. It consists of recordings, and as I write these down I have the (fallacious) impression of learning what I write behind me. I’m never ashamed of it, I’m never proud of it.

emphasis mine
I find this last bit a little hard to believe. Nearly every time I place pen to pad I must rethink as the ink rolls onto the page. There is a hesitancy and a caution before I can commit to one word or the next. Furthermore – upon commitance – I am almost always drawn back over the past few lines to check myself – and more often find myself feeling assaulted by my lack of talent than I do amazed or comforted. But to continue…

“There’s almost a gap between the moment when I felt and the moment when I write [...] When I write, I try to establish a solid, clearly defined foundation as a point of departure. After all, among primitive peoples there are ceremonies to help the living person to die; to help the soul detach itself from the body. My ‘confessional’ notes have the same purpose: to help my present being slip into the past – push it in a bit deeper, if need be. There’s a degree of illusion there, for it’s not enough to expose a psychological constant in order to modify it. But at least that sketches some possible hint of change.” p70

In the following pages, Sartre details his youth, which bears a striking similarity to my own – in that there is a stark realization that time is stopping for no one – that before you know it you are “up to your neck” in life. While I still don’t think I’ve fully grasped onto this challenge – Sartre’s words resonate. Then a prelude to his writing theory, p78

Sartre’s Youth and Why We Write

“The sole purpose of an absurd existence was indefinitely to produce works of art which at once escaped it. That was its sole justification; an imperfect justification moreover, which did not succeed in redeeming those long gobs of time that had to be swallowed one after another. It was really a morality of salvation through art. As for life itself, this was to be lived in carefree fashion, any old way. I was doing so well at living it ‘any old way’ that I was getting into a rut. I was acquiring bachelor habits.”

On my own lack of foresight

Perhaps the clearest and most resounding sentence I have carried with me out of this reading is a remark of why this journal business, for Sartre, is but a flight of fancy: “I don’t want to be haunted by myself till the end of my days.” p 139. That is an excellent example of foresight. That is an ingredient, an aspect, and/or a character trait of which I must admit to having a profound lack. There is no seeing for me. More often than not I am swung between trees from the vine of passion, only to find the next vine is not there. The trapeze artist – performing without a net – reaching out to grasp the hand of a partner who just doesn’t exist. I’ve been thinking like this recently because of this web presence. I’ve also been thinking about it for the collection of journals stacked in my closet that preceded this space. I’ve already mentioned how I feel on reading just the last few lines that surface from thought. Take that feeling and multiply it by years of journal lines. I can’t go from one page to the next without feeling a twinge of regret for something I said or did to someone else. I am…haunted by those words. But those words are more than just words. They are words imbued with truth and reality. It really is a horrific thing.

I see a lack of foresight in my conversations as well. Often times I’m swept up in the moment. There is a giddy lack of oxygen and I’ve heard myself in recordings giggling like a little school girl. Most of us hate the sound of our recorded voices. I hate the sound of my recorded social interactions. I know that in conversations with certain people, it is as if I am sheathing myself in a different skin. The approach, the tone, the background — everything about the conversation is already changed before it has begun. There is no equal footing. There is a prejudice. This is reflected somewhat in the nature of this post. Obviously the written word is a different medium of communication — but even in this post alone: I could have simply continued it in the same fashion as other posts — one long entry. But I broke it down into an extended entry because of its length. Of the few that read these random daily musings, even fewer will get through to this point. I don’t blame them.

To continue with the notion of the recorded voice. I’ve mentioned how I often wake in the mornings – knowing that late in the preceding evening I had ventured onto some stranger’s lot in the blogosphere and left a comment behind. As the fog is lifting in the morning I often go back and read – and cringe. There is something in the nature of this form that demands one to be succint. When I try to be succint, my words often lose their nuance. That isn’t to say that my struggles for clarity exist only when brevity is sought. Please see the above as evidence. I read what I write sometimes and wonder whether people can actually feel or understand or empathize or whatever with what I am trying to say. It can be crippling.

I watched a high profile online personality suffer a breakdown with an eery understanding. I thought about a particular utterance he’d made — that perhaps people thought he was being dramatic and that he should just have a beer, sit down on the couch and chill out. I also thought about his emphasis on the word relate. Relating. On not being alone. I don’t have this documented in the black book — but I know that Sartre has mentioned the notion of “playing” in both Being and Consciousness – and am almost certain he mentions it here in the diaries. My quick thought — one has to be dramatic or “play” in order to relate because one has to be perceived. When we are forced to double back and see ourselves in our attempts to communicate, or relate, we see ourselves being inauthentic — because we aren’t able, in our dramatic acts, to completely display what it is tearing at us from the inside.

Just linking to the movie raises a quandary in itself. Something so intensely personal — made public. But in that personal world, making things public, relating — was a personal act. These last few sentences are examples of a lack of foresight. I could keep pounding on these keys and try to make you understand what I’m thinking — but I’m not sure it can be done. I’m not sure if I want it done. Once you let something out you open yourself up to the world – and the world is often heartless. I’ve looked over some of the others who linked to the movie – and there is one in particular that sickens me with their callousness. Let’s approximate it. You have a large blister that rolls under the touch of your fingers. Say it’s on your thumb. You grip that blister between your teeth and rip your head back, tasting the liquids beneath before the pain begins to rise. That — that is an approximation.

One last note on this topic. Sartre may have hit on something in that second blockquote above when he mentioned trying to establish a “solid, clearly defined foundation as a point of departure.” Sometimes knowing where to begin is a good way of devising a way to end.

Sartre, Pessimism or Honesty

From Sartre’s Notebook 12:

“All happiness has to be paid for, and there’s no affair that doesn’t end badly. I don’t write this in the pathetic mode, but simply and bluntly, because I’ve always thought it and because I really had to say it here. It hasn’t prevented me from throwing myself into affairs; but I was always convinced they would end sordidly, and happiness has never befallen me without my thinking at once about what would come to pass afterwords.”

Saturday 24th
“For the past three days, thaw. Mud, slush; the roads have an oddly female smell this morning. This soft, (ed. note, editor being Kevin: My writing here is quite illegible) gentle, grey weather saddens your heart. I was a bit drunk yesterday evening, when I wrote the last two notes. Not that I got drunk on purpose; but Pieter, who was going on leave, bought me a drink and then I was thirsty and drank a bottle of wine and, in short, I was so on edge the alcohol went to my head. Just enough to give me a vision of myself. Basically, that’s what drunkeness is with me: when I’m drunk I have a vision of myself. This morning I’m dry and dismal, with something I can feel right down inside me all ready to be unleashed – and which undoubtedly will be unleashed at about one in the afternoon.”

I think perhaps that that is a fitting way to end this post. Nothing quite like scatalogical humor to lighten the load of what is otherwise a serious introspective investigation. I’ve taken the liberty of quoting vast passages of the notebooks — and lacking any serious notion of copyright law – have done so innocently. I’ll mention again the title: The War Diaries of Jean Paul Sartre. That’s a link that should be clear enough to give credit where credit is due. I wish I could exit gracefully — but I’m afraid most of my energy was spent in a rant some paragraphs above. I must be about in a few hours as well…

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