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| Jean-Paul Sartre Cookbook
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| by Marty Smith.
From The Free Agent, March 1987 (a Portland, Oregon alternative newspaper). Republished (in part) in the Utne Reader Nov./Dec. 1993. |
| We have recently been
lucky enough to discover several previously lost diaries of French philosopher
Jean-Paul Sartre stuck in between the cushions of our office sofa. These
diaries reveal a young Sartre obsessed not with the void, but with food.
Aparently Sartre, before discovering philosophy, had hoped to write "a
cookbook that will put to rest all notions of flavor forever.'' The diaries
are excerpted here for your perusal. |
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October 3- Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten,
he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work.
How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet. |
| October 4-
Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep
creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the
sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create
an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead
they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not
look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux
suggested paprika. |
| October 6-
I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese)
is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of a cigarette, some coffee,
and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged,
but my journey is still long. |
| October 7-
Today I agian modified my omelet recipe. While my previous attempts
had expressed my own bitterness, they communicated only illness to the
eater. In an attempt to reach the bourgeoisie, I taped two fried eggs
over my eyes and walked the streets of Paris for an hour. I ran into
Camus at the Select. He called me a "pathetic dork" and told me to "go
home and wash my face." Angered, I poured a bowl of bouillabaisse into
his lap. He became enraged, and, seizing a straw wrapped in paper, tore
off one end of the wrapper and blew through the straw. propelleing the
wrapper into my eye. "Ow! You dick!" I cried. I leaped up, cursing and
holding my eye, and fled. |
| October 10-
I find myself trying ever more radical interpretations of traditional
dishes, in an effort to somehow express the void I feel so acutely.
Today I tried this recipe: |
| Tuna Casserole |
While a void is
expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the
bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied
him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I am becoming more
and more frustated. |
| October 12-My
eye has become inflamed. I hate Camus. |
| October 25-
I have been forced to abandon the project of producing an entire cookbook.
Rather, I now seek a single recipe which will, by itself, embody the
plight of man in a world ruled by an unfeeling God, as well as providing
the eater with at least one ingredient from each of the four basic food
groups. To this end, I purchased six hundred pounds of foodstuffs from
the corner grocery and locked myself in the kitchen, refusing to admit
anyone. After several weeks of work, I produced a recipe calling for
two eggs, half a cup of flour, four tons of beef, and a leek. While
this is a start, I am afraid I still have much work ahead. |
| November 15-I
feel that I may be very close to a great breakthrough. I had been creating
meal after meal, but none seemed to express the futility of existence
any better than would ordering a pizza. I left the house this morning
in a most depressed state, and wandered aimlessly through the streets.
Suddenly, it was aif the heavens had opened. My brain was electrified
with an influx of new ideas. "Juice, toast, milk.." I muttered aloud.
I realized with a start that I was one ingredient away from creating
the nutritious breakfast. Loathsome, true, but filled with existential
authenticity. I rushed home to begin work anew. |
| November 18-Today
I tried yet another variation: Juice, toast, milk and Chee-tos. Again,
a dismal failure. I have tried everything. Juice, toast, milk and whiskey,
juice, toast, milk and chicken fat, juice, toast, milk and someone else's
spit. Nothing helps. I am in agony. Juice, toast, milk, they race about
my fevered brain like fire, like an unholy trinity of cruel denial.
And the fourth ingredient! What could it be? It eludes me like the lost
chord, the Holy Grail. I must see the completion of my task, but I have
no more money to spend on food. Perhaps man is not meant to know. |
| November 21-Camus
came into the restaurant today. He did not know I was in the kitchen,
and before I sent out his meal I loogied in his soup. Sic semper tyrannis. |
November 23-Ran
into some opposition at the restaurant. Some of the patrons complained
that my breakfast special (a page out of Remembrance of Things Past
and a blowtorch with which to set it on fire) did not satisfy their
hunger. As if their hunger was of any consequence! "But we're starving,"
they say. So what? They're going to die eventually anyway. They make
me want to puke. I have quit the job. It is stupid for Jean- Paul Sartre
to sling hash. I have enough money to continue my work for a little
while. |
November 24-Last
night I had a dream. In it, I am standing, alone, on a beach. A great
storm is raging all about me. It begins to rain. Night falls. I am struck
by how small and insignificant I am, how the entire race of Man is but
a speck in the eye of God, and I am but a speck of humanity. Suddenly,
a red Cadillac convertible pulls up beside me, In it are these two beautiful
girls named Jojo and Wendy. I get in, and they take me to their mansion
in Hollywood and give me a pound of cocaine and make mad, passionate
love to me for the rest of my life. |
| November 26-Today
I made a Black Forest cake out of five pounds of cherries and a live
beaver, challenging the very definition of the word "cake." I was very
pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but could not stay for
dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement
yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off. |
| November 30-Today
was the day of the Bake-Off. Alas, things did not go as I had hoped.
During the judging, the beaver became agitated and bit Betty Crocker
on the wrist. The beaver's powerful jaws are capable of felling blue
spruce in less than ten minutes and proved, needless to say, more than
a match for the tender limbs of America's favorite homemaker. I only
got third place. Moreover, I am now the subject of a rather nasty lawsuit.
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| December 1 -I
have been gaining twenty-five pounds a week for two months, and I am
now experiencing light tides. It is stupid to be so fat. My pain and
ultimate solitude are still as authentic as they were when I was thin,
but seem to impress girls far less. From now on, I will live on cigarettes
and black coffee. |
| ***Sartre died
in Paris in 1981. His last word is reputed to have been, simply, "Trix."
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