By Jean-Paul Sartre (1946)

My purpose here is to offer a defense of existentialism against several reproaches that have been laid against it.

First, it has been reproached as an invitation to people to dwell in quietism of despair. For if every way to a solution is barred, one would have to regard any action in this world as entirely ineffective, and one would arrive finally at a contemplative philosophy. Moreover, since contemplation is a luxury, this would be only another bourgeois philosophy. This is, especially, the reproach made by the Communists.

From another quarter we are reproached for having underlined all that is ignominious in the human situation, for depicting what is mean, sordid or base to the neglect of certain things that possess charm and beauty and belong to the brighter side of human nature: for example, according to  the Catholic critic, Mlle. Mercier, we forget how an infant smiles. Both from this side and from the other we are also reproached for leaving out of account the solidarity of mankind and considering man in isolation. And this, say the Communists, is because we base our doctrine upon pure subjectivity — upon the Cartesian “I think”: which is the moment in which solitary man attains to himself; a position from which it is impossible to  regain solidarity with other men who exist outside of the self. The ego cannot reach them through the cogito.

By Jean-Paul Sartre

They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls: they looked alike. I supposed they were French. The smaller one kept hitching up his pants: nerves.

It lasted about three hours: I was dizzy and my head was empty; but the room was well heated and I found that pleasant enough: for the past 24 hours we hadn't stopped shivering. The guards brought the prisoners up to the table, one after the other. The four men asked each one his name and occupation. Most of the time they didn't go any further--or they would simply ask a question here and there: "Did you have anything to do with the sabotage of munitions?" Or "Where were you the morning of the 9th and what were you doing?" They didn't listen to the answers or at least didn't seem to. They were quiet for a moment and then looking straight in front of them began to write. They asked Tom if it were true he was in the International Brigade: Tom couldn't tell them otherwise because of the papers they found in his coat. They didn't ask Juan anything but they wrote for a long time after he told them his name.

We'd gaze at our sky in awe as the doomsday asteroid began burning its way through our atmosphere; the silent yet blindingly bright fireball would fly across the sky above, and eventually settling over the horizon like a time lapse sunset. Impact.

For most living creatures, its three seconds to midnight. Immediately before the planetary firestorm vaporized us, it would appear as though a second sun was rising. What thoughts would we have knowing that ours would be the last of homosapie? It is a question worth asking; for death tends to remind the living of what has true value.

Obviously, our laws, governments, and possessions would finally be seen for what they were: slowly agreed upon illusions. In addition, our scientific and technological achievements would be properly humbled; mere attempts by our oversized ape brains to comprehend and control forces which operate on levels that surpass our cognitive reach. Not to mention, the laws of physics exist regardless of our ability to precieve them. Thus, I'd imagine tthere to be very few tears shed in the name of science; in addition to our founding fathers, and capitalism. But, each of us already knows that; though it often takes an asteroid to remind us of the true value the things we normally so blindly cherish. Its quite a steep price for enlightenment.

Out of all of the things that humans have achieved, when our clock reads three seconds to midnight, its our art and music that will appear to be the most tragic losses. For, in the end, what had art and music been, besides the perfect reflection of ourselves? Science, and the various instituions based on natural law, such as government and markets, will flourish elsewhere in the universe. But without us, however, human art and music is meaningless.

No photograph nor computer generated graphic can caputre the imperfection of our condition like a work of art. An artist creates a work by attempting to translate a garbled and vauge mental image into a picture; the artist has nothing besides his dexterity, brush, and paint. Once he complete his image, others view it, and attempt to understand it. And obviously, distortions get significantly worse, once an audience is involved… However, that distortion between the world, our minds; yet our unrelenting urge to communicate our experiences -- especially those which cannot be described through words -- and we even judge "quality" as being relative to our own imperfections! Could there be anything more human than art?Yet, for me, it is music that defines the experience of being human. A Beethoven Sonata is the perfect metaphor for life: It begins with silence. Then, there is noise. However, with time, our brain begin to recognize patterns in the chaos. Soon, those patterns become solid rythyms and tones; we can hum along with it, if you will. But usually by that time, we lose interest in our sonata, because its predictable. Yet, one of Beethoven's secrets was sudden key changes and fluctuatations in amplitude at the very moments that the audience least expected it. Over the course of the Sonata, these cycles of predictability, and sudden change emerge as a larger patterns -- the full Sonata Structure -- the big picture if you will. Towards the end you notice all of the themes, transitions and varations its as though suddenly it becomes clear. Yet, tragically, by that time, you will enevitably hear the final chord resolve – all of the tension and relief which were once caused by musical notes suddenly disappear. All that is left is silence… the same silence that existed before; that silence that you were unaware of until it was broken by Beethoven's music. Ironically, it often seems as though music does nothing besides help you appreciate a lack of silence. And indeed, once the song is passed, often one will wish that they had spent more time enjoying the song in the present, as opposed to always wondering where it would go in the future; or simply ignoring it; and not appreciating it for it had "seemed familiar" at one time. And so it would have been for humanity, had the asteroid hit us. The flash in the sky would our resolving chord. And sadly, many of us were unable to appreciate our song until we realized that eternal silence was only seconds away . But what more fitting way for us to disappear than a few seconds of worldwide enlightenment? Perhaps, in such a light, the tsunami might serve some of us as a reminder -- and a warning -- from the great landlord. Our lease might be revoked at any moment.