We were so into Jean-Paul Sartre in those days, and Simone de Bouvier, not to mention (my favourite) Albert Camus. French despair was so “in”, so trendy, and our mantra — the antithesis of what we had been taught in our Christian-dominated schools — became Sartre’s “hell is other people”. So much for “love your neighbour”.
No collection of books in our meagre student libraries at University College Galway was complete without Sartre’s Nausea, not to mention his Roads to Freedom trilogy: Age of Reason; The Reprieve; and Troubled Sleep, obligatory reading if you were to be taken seriously by fellow students. They were exhausting. I was so glad he never finished that fourth volume.
Yes, we were so into the futility of life, the absurdity of existence, and existentialism in our late teens/early 20s. It is the only way to start in adult life; everything is a plus after that. What else is left when you have plunged into the very abyss of philosophical despair between student parties? Besides, I was always suspicious of Sartre.
There was his doubtful treatment of Simone (we were on first-name terms) but also his lack of courage. Having successfully illustrated the meaninglessness of living, he insisted on continuing to do so. Why? Had there been no integrity? Were he consistent with his philosophy he would have taken the honourable route and ended it all. Only then could I respect him. He did not seem interested in my respect.
I went to the cinema to see Small Things Like These. By the time I emerged I had concluded the film was crap
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So, I went off Sarte, if not quite ... other people. But I liked Camus. It helped that he was dead and so escaped those of us tempted to shout “hypocrite” at him too for insisting on living. His book The Plague was one of my favourite novels in those years. It still is. The hero is a doctor who persists in helping to relieve human suffering even as it is overwhelming and all around him. Not unlike what medical staff in Gaza dealt with in recent months or during the Covid pandemic. They did not have time to enjoy the leisurely despair we did in youth.
Maybe it is a resilience instilled by our difficult Irish history which makes obstinate hope before overwhelming odds so attractive. And I still can’t warm to Jean Paul.
Absurd, plainly illogical, from Latin absurdus for “out of tune, discordant”.
