Since finishing Moby-Dick the other day, I’ve returned to my mission to finish reading all the books I’ve started but haven’t finished reading. And since Faust was such an easy book to finish (ahem), I got optimistic and decided to tackle Sartre’s The Age of Reason next.
Because it’s important to finish what you’ve started, especially if it’s a good book. (Don’t waste your precious time finishing bad books just because you started them. Abiding to the sunk cost fallacy will cost you dearly.)
So here I am, carrying Sartre everywhere I go, on the off chance that I’ll have some random moment throughout the day to read the pages I’ve calculated and divided and assigned for each day for the rest of the month.
After all, I want to get it over with. I want to get it done by the end of the summer. So that I can talk about the book. And move on to more Gothic themes for the autumn.
Today, I was sitting in a cafe (as per usual), enjoying a cappuccino and a piece of chocolate cake and decided to read a few pages of said existential classic - not realizing that it would perhaps not be the best idea.
Who knew that reading existential literature could induce an existential crisis?
Suddenly, I was grateful to have ordered the chocolate cake. But a moment later, I felt horrible, because life is misery and I can’t deal with the pressure of air coming from all directions at once. Well, at least I wasn’t afraid of death, like I sometimes am at night - oh, will you look at that, I was suddenly afraid of death, and right in the middle of the day, too.
Now, here’s the thing: it’s a good book. It’s a masterpiece. It’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. But I really, really dislike the way it makes me feel.
I don’t want to feel existential dread. But I want to read good literature. And good literature always has an impact on your soul. Even if it is an attack-like impact.
In a nutshell:
I feel bombarded.
It’s a good thing.
I freaking h*** it.
Screw you, Sartre, and your ridiculous brilliance.
