I spent another weekend in country Uganda in a town called Fort Portal. Though it didn't do enough to dislodge Lake Bunyonyi from it's recently earned position of "most beautiful place in Uganda", it excelled in some of the categories. On Saturday, we did a bike ride to a waterfall, which we swam in, and followed it with a trek in pouring rain (which made it all the more fun) to some crater lakes and then biked back to town for pizzas.
On Saturday, I got some time to get into Words by Jean-Paul Sartre. Though I have read books and essays referencing his works, I have never actually picked up any of his books. How does a man get so bitter and cynical? There is the scene where he, as a young boy of maybe 6, is greeted by his grandfather at the train station with the expected exuberance. Sartre dissects this interaction to small pieces exposing the ugly innards. He spares no one. From his dead father, whom he did not know, to his grandfather, who brought him up. He even criticises the actions of his 6 year old self.
Though vaguely aware of Sartre contribution to existential philosophy, I didn't know that he was such a gifted writer. He writes with dispassion and insight. He narrates like it is chore and he tell his own story like it has nothing to do with him and he is weary of talking about it. Hhis bare-knuckled honestly is startling and refreshing. His words have an undercurrent of anger, at the lack of self awareness, and frustration, at being a victim of habit and circumstance.
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