On the Convenience of Reposts


So, my friend Ceres shared a link to a New Yorker post that gave me a much needed dose of high-brow hilarity. Because it’s terribly funny, and also because I’m out of ideas today, I’m sharing my favorite bits of the aforementioned post: (The full article can be found at http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/shouts/2012/10/le-blog-de-jean-paul-sartre.html.)

LE BLOG DE JEAN PAUL-SARTRE

Wednesday, 22 July, 1959: 10:50 A.M.

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?”

Monday, 27 July, 1959: 4:10 A.M.

Lunch with Merleau-Ponty this afternoon in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I was  disturbed to hear that he has started a photoblog, and skeptical when he told me  that although all its images are identical—a lonely kitten staring bleakly into  space as rain falls pitilessly from an empty sky—he averages sixteen thousand  page views per day. When I asked to see his referrer logs, he muttered evasively  about having an appointment with an S.E.O. specialist and scurried away.

So this is hell.

Thursday, 20 August, 1959: 2:10 P.M.

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.

Friday, 2 October, 1959: 5:55 A.M.

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 withdrew 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.

Tuesday, 10 November, 1959: 12:05 A.M.

It has been over a month since I have updated my blog. I am seized with an  urge to apologize. But to whom, and to what end? If one truly creates for one’s  self, why then am I so disturbed to find that my unique visitors have dwindled  away practically to nothing, with a bounce rate approaching ninety-five per  cent? These twin impulses—toward reckless self-regard and the approbation of  others—neatly negate one another. This is the essential paradox of our time.

I will start a podcast.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!

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