In which philosophy finally confronts the terrifying question: if there is no essence before existence, then who are you?
♦ ♦ ♦Who are you? Are you born with a nature? Or must you create yourself? Before you read about Sartre and Camus and Heidegger, sit with this question.
From Lesson 44 (Kierkegaard, 3 lessons ago): Kierkegaard said we create ourselves through passionate commitment. Existence precedes essence. Sound familiar? Sartre was reading Kierkegaard.
From Lesson 40 (Kant, 7 lessons ago): Kant said humans are free agents with absolute moral responsibility. We are ends in ourselves, never merely means. This haunted Sartre. We are responsible, yes—but responsible to what? To whom?
From Lesson 33 (Hobbes, 14 lessons ago): Hobbes said humans are selfish by nature, caught in a war of all against all. Only the social contract saves us. But Sartre will ask: isn't the social contract another prison? Isn't bad faith just accepting the contract without rebellion?
A knife is made for cutting. That is its essence. It was designed for that purpose. A dog might have a nature—to hunt, to bond with a pack, to serve. But you? You were not designed. You were thrown into existence. No instruction manual. No purpose handed down from above. That is the human condition, according to existentialism. You must choose who you are. You must create your own essence. What does that feel like?
It is October 1940. Paris lies under German occupation. The city's cafes—once the beating heart of intellectual life—are now strange places. Some philosophers have been silenced. Others collaborating. But in the Café de Flore, in the back corner, a thin man with dark eyes sits hunched over a typewriter, chain-smoking, his fingers moving furiously. He is Jean-Paul Sartre. He is writing what will become Being and Nothingness, the manifesto of existentialism. The war rages around him. The world offers no meaning. And yet, in this chaos, Sartre discovers something radical: we are free. Absolutely. And this freedom is a prison.
Before Sartre, there was Heidegger. In 1927, he published Being and Time, asking a question Western philosophy had largely forgotten: What is Being itself? Not beings (things that exist), but Being—the ground of existence.
Heidegger's great insight was to reject the Cartesian split. You are not a mind trapped in a body. You are not an observer of the world. Rather, you are always already in-the-world—dwelling, engaged, situated. He called this fundamental condition Dasein (being-there). You are thrown into a world not of your making, into a culture, a language, a history, relationships and responsibilities you did not choose. This is not oppressive—it is the condition of being human.
But Heidegger adds something darker: being-toward-death. We are the only creatures who know we will die. This knowledge is not incidental to our existence. It is central to it. The awareness of death—what Heidegger calls our “finitude”—is what gives life meaning and urgency. When we deny death, we fall into what Heidegger calls “inauthenticity”: we live as the “they” live, doing what “they” do, thinking what “they” think. We hide from our own existence in the crowd.
Sartre took Heidegger's framework and radicalized it. He made it political. He made it inescapable. And he did it in occupied Paris, under the boot of fascism.
Here is Sartre's revolutionary claim: existence precedes essence.
What does this mean? Consider a paper cutter. The paper cutter has an essence before it exists. It was designed to cut paper. Its essence precedes its existence. The manufacturer had a purpose in mind.
But a human? You were not designed with a purpose. You have no predetermined essence. You exist first, thrown into existence without instruction or plan. Then, through your choices, moment by moment, you create your essence. You define yourself. This is the human condition.
And here is the terror: you cannot escape this. You are radically free. Even if you try to hide from your freedom—by claiming you are just doing your job, just following orders, just being what society expects—you are still choosing. The Nazi soldier who says “I was just following orders” is in bad faith. He is lying to himself about his freedom. He could have refused. He chose not to.
This is Sartre's most famous concept: bad faith. It is the denial of freedom. The waiter who says “I am a waiter” as if that were his essence—he is in bad faith. He is treating a role, a performance, a choice as if it were a fixed nature. The truth is: he chooses, moment by moment, to be a waiter. He could choose otherwise. He might lose his wages. He might suffer. But he is not condemned by nature. He is free.
And this is what torments Sartre: with radical freedom comes radical responsibility. You cannot blame God, nature, circumstances, or society for what you have made of yourself. Yes, these limit your options. But within those limits, you are free. And you are responsible.
In his play No Exit, Sartre imagines hell as a room where three dead people are locked together forever. There is no torture, no fire. But they cannot escape each other's gaze. And in that gaze, each is reduced to an object. “Hell is other people,” one of them says. Why? Because the other person's consciousness turns you into a thing. They see you, judge you, objectify you. And you do the same to them. We are all perpetually condemned to this mutual objectification. Yet we are also utterly dependent on it for our sense of self.
If Sartre gave existentialism a political edge, Camus gave it a tragic depth. And he gave it a different answer to the same question.
Camus described a fundamental conflict: the absurd. On one side, we have a universe that is silent, indifferent, offering no meaning or purpose. On the other side, we have a deep human hunger for meaning, for reason, for answers. These two forces collide. That collision is the absurd.
Imagine Sisyphus. He is condemned by the gods to roll a boulder up a mountain. When he reaches the top, the boulder rolls back down. He descends, and begins again. This is his punishment for eternity. No progress. No escape. No meaning.
What is Sisyphus to do? He could despair. He could kill himself (Camus begins his essay on the absurd by asking whether suicide is the only logical response to an absurd universe). He could lie to himself, pretending the boulder is meaningful, that his labor will one day succeed.
But Camus offers a different answer. And it is one of the most profound sentences in twentieth-century philosophy:
How? How can Sisyphus be happy, rolling the same boulder up the same hill, forever, with no purpose?
Because he accepts the absurd. He stops pretending the boulder matters. He stops waiting for rescue. He sees clearly: the universe offers no meaning. And he chooses to live anyway. More than that—he revolts against the absurd by embracing the beauty of the struggle itself. His freedom lies not in changing his circumstance (he cannot), but in changing his attitude toward it. He can choose to be alive to each moment, to feel his muscles, to sense the sun, to be present to the struggle, even though the struggle is meaningless.
This is what Camus means by “revolt.” Not rebellion (trying to change the impossible), but a clear-eyed refusal to surrender. Sisyphus becomes happy not because the boulder ceases to roll back, but because he becomes the master of his own consciousness—the one thing the universe cannot control.
In the cafes of Paris, a woman sat beside Sartre. She was brilliant, fierce, relentless in argument. Simone de Beauvoir was not content to apply existentialism to abstract freedom. She applied it to a concrete question: What does existentialism mean for women?
In 1949, she published The Second Sex, a book that would change feminism forever. Her argument: woman is not born with a female essence. Rather, woman is made—by culture, by men, by oppressive systems that treat woman as the “other,” the object to man's subject, the secondary being to man's primary being.
But here is the existentialist turn: if existence precedes essence, then this oppression is not natural or inevitable. It is a choice—a choice made by society, by men, and tragically, often by women themselves, accepting the role they have been given. And if it is a choice, it can be refused. Women are free. They are radically responsible for creating their own essence, their own lives, their own meaning. The oppressive role offered them is a form of bad faith if they accept it without resistance.
De Beauvoir is often overshadowed by Sartre. But her contribution is crucial: she showed that existentialism is not about abstract freedom. It is about the concrete, lived, political freedom of real people—including women.
1. Existence Precedes Essence: You are not born with a predetermined nature. You exist first. Through your choices, you create your essence. No shortcuts, no appeal to nature or destiny.
2. Radical Freedom and Responsibility: You are free. Absolutely. But this freedom is a burden. You are responsible for what you make of yourself. You cannot blame circumstances, society, or God. Within your freedom, you choose.
3. The Absurd and Authenticity: The universe offers no meaning. Yet you must live. Authenticity means accepting this and choosing how to respond—not by pretending the universe cares, but by creating meaning through your choices and commitments, knowing they ultimately rest on your own free choice.
You are not born with a nature. You must create yourself.
A paper cutter is made for cutting paper. That is its essence—its purpose, its predetermined form. A knife is made for cutting. A shoe for wearing. The essence comes first. But you? You are first thrown into existence. Before any essence. Before any role or definition. You exist in a state of radical openness. Then, through your choices—some tiny, some enormous—you gradually create your essence. That choice to become a doctor, a parent, a friend, an artist—these are not expressions of some deep nature you already possess. They are the creation of that nature. You are the sum total of your choices. And since you are always free to choose differently, your essence is never fixed. It is always being created, always in flux, always your responsibility.
You are free. But you often deny your freedom—this is bad faith.
Bad faith is a lie you tell yourself about your own freedom. The waiter who says “I am a waiter” as if that were an immutable fact about him—he is in bad faith. He is treating a role, a performance, something he does, as if it were something he is. The truth is: he chooses, moment by moment, to be a waiter. Every gesture, every performance, every submission to the customer's will—these are choices. He is afraid of his own freedom. He prefers to hide in the role.
But everyone does this. The student who says “I am not smart enough to do physics” is in bad faith—he is denying his freedom to try, to fail, to grow. The person who says “That's just who I am, I can't change” is in bad faith. The lover who says “I had no choice but to cheat; I was overwhelmed” is in bad faith. There are always constraints on our choices—physical, social, circumstantial. But within those constraints, we are always free. Denying that freedom, treating ourselves as if we were things without choice, is bad faith. Authenticity means accepting your freedom—and the overwhelming responsibility that comes with it.
Meaning is not given to you. The universe is silent. Yet you must live, and in living, you create meaning.
This is not nihilism. Nihilism says nothing matters, so why try? But existentialism says: precisely because nothing matters objectively, your choices matter absolutely—because they are yours. You are free to create meaning through your commitments. You can commit to a cause, a person, a project, knowing it rests ultimately on your free choice, knowing the universe will not validate it. And that is precisely what makes it meaningful. That is what makes it yours. The parent who raises a child does not do so because the universe says children matter. The parent does it because they freely choose to, and in that choice, they create a meaning that sustains them. This act of creation against the silence of the universe—this is human freedom in its truest form.
You will die. This is not a tragedy. It is what makes life meaningful.
When you truly accept that you will die—not intellectually, but in your bones—everything changes. The petty concerns of social approval fall away. The endless deferral of what you really want becomes unbearable. You realize: you don't have unlimited time. You have this life. This moment. And what you do with it is entirely up to you. This is why authenticity and being-toward-death are linked. To live authentically means to live as if you are going to die—because you are. It means not hiding in the crowd, not deferring your real self indefinitely, not pretending you will do the meaningful thing someday, when the time is right. The time is now. Death is the horizon that gives life shape.
You wanted to be free. But now that you see you are free, do you still want it?
Sartre observed something crucial: most people do not actually want freedom. They want safety, certainty, rules, guidance. They want someone to tell them who they are and what to do. Freedom is terrifying. It is easier to say “I am just a waiter” or “I am just a mother” or “I am just a victim of my circumstances” than to accept that you are free and responsible for your entire existence. This is why bad faith is so seductive. It offers refuge from freedom. But Sartre says: there is no refuge. You are condemned to be free. Not cursed—condemned. Like a prisoner with an open cell door, too afraid to walk through. You are trapped by the very freedom that should liberate you.
Camus writes on the absurd and human freedom. Published during the Nazi occupation of France. Encode “19” and “42”.
Sartre's 800-page masterwork. Written in occupied Paris. The manifesto of existentialism. Encode “19” and “43”.
Simone de Beauvoir's revolutionary work on gender and existentialism. “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” Encode “19” and “49”.
You are constructing a palace of memory. Each lesson is a room. Here is Room 47, where Existentialism dwells. You will choose your own location in the physical world—a place you know well. Then you will place five vivid, bizarre, sensory-rich images there. When you recall these images, you will remember the core ideas.
Image 1: The Open Prison Cell. You stand in your location, but you see a prison cell with bars. The door is wide open. There is no lock, no guard. But you—the prisoner—cannot move. You are frozen with terror at your own freedom. The opening is blazingly bright. Outside, infinite possibility. But you cannot step through. This is Sartre's “condemned to be free.”
Image 2: The Waiter's Gestures. In the same location, you see a waiter performing. His movements are exaggerated, almost robotic. He bows with mechanical precision. He carries an imaginary tray. Every gesture screams: “I AM A WAITER.” But as you watch, you see his eyes—terrified, trapped, denying his own freedom. This is bad faith.
Image 3: The Skeleton at the Table. Sitting at a table in your location is a skeleton. It is cheerful, oddly. It is knitting, or reading, or sipping tea. Because this skeleton knows it is dying, it is fully alive to the moment. The shadow of death makes every moment precious. This is being-toward-death.
Image 4: Sisyphus at the Peak. There, in your location, is a mountain. Sisyphus stands at the summit, sweat glistening, muscles rippling with effort. The boulder is at his feet, about to roll back down. And his face—his face is smiling. Not with resignation. With joy. He has accepted the absurd. The boulder will roll. He will descend and push again. But he is happy. This is Camus's answer.
Image 5: The Solitary Figure in a Crowd. You see a person standing alone in a bustling city square. Around them, hundreds of people. But this person stands apart, looking out at the crowd—and the crowd looking at them. They are objectified by all those gazes. But they are also a subject, a consciousness, looking back. They are creating themselves moment by moment through their choices in this web of other consciousnesses. This is radical freedom and radical responsibility.
Pick a real place. Your bedroom. Your kitchen. A location in a city you know. A place you can vividly visualize. This is where you will place your five images. The stranger and more vivid the images, the better you will remember them.
Sartre says existence precedes essence—we are radically free. But are we? What about biology, upbringing, poverty, oppression? Does saying “you are free” to someone trapped in desperation sound like a gift or a cruelty?
What decision are you avoiding? What role are you playing without realizing it? Where are you telling yourself “I have no choice” when really, you do—but the choice is hard?
Sartre said “hell is other people” because they turn you into an object with their gaze. But haven't you also been comforted by someone seeing you, recognizing you, validating you? Is the gaze only hell?
Camus says the universe offers no meaning. We hunger for meaning. These clash. Where do you feel this clash in your own life? School? Work? Relationships? Social media?
Camus's Sisyphus chooses happiness through acceptance. But couldn't he escape? Shouldn't he escape? Is Camus offering wisdom or resignation?
Heidegger said awareness of death makes life meaningful. But if you're aware you're going to die, doesn't that make meaning seem pointless? How does finitude create meaning instead of destroying it?
Choose one (or more) and write your response. Or write about something else entirely from this lesson.
Set the timer. In one minute, capture the essence of this lesson in your own words. Don’t worry about perfection. Capture the feeling, the insight, the question that stays with you.
Fill in the blanks:
1942 — The Myth of Sisyphus (Camus)
1943 — Being and Nothingness (Sartre)
1949 — The Second Sex (de Beauvoir)
Explain this core claim in your own words. What does it mean for freedom and responsibility?
Humans have no predetermined nature or essence. Unlike a knife (made to cut), a human is first thrown into existence, then through radical freedom and choice, creates their own essence. This means you are entirely responsible for who you become. You cannot blame nature, God, or society. You are free. And that freedom is a burden.
The waiter says: “I am a waiter.” Why is this bad faith? What is he denying?
He is denying his own freedom. He is treating “being a waiter” as if it were a fixed essence, something he is. But really, “waiter” is a role, something he does. He chooses, moment by moment, to play this role. Recognizing this freedom is terrifying, so he hides in the role. That hiding is bad faith.
Match each philosopher to their central idea:
Heidegger (1889–1976): Being-toward-death. Awareness of mortality shapes authentic existence. We are Dasein—being-in-the-world.
Sartre (1905–1980): Existence precedes essence. Radical freedom and radical responsibility. Bad faith as denial of freedom.
Camus (1913–1960): The absurd. The universe offers no meaning, yet we must live. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
This lesson raises a question you can’t answer. What is it?
Existentialism is radical freedom. But freedom without direction is just chaos. Freedom without meaning is just anxiety. Sartre has no answer to the question: what am I free to choose? Camus says: choose to be happy, even though nothing matters. But is that enough? Is that liveable? Is there something missing—something that would make freedom not just possible, but joyful?
We will return to this question. Soon.
Spaced repetition connections: This lesson linked Lesson 44 (Kierkegaard, +3), Lesson 40 (Kant's ethics of duty, +7), and Lesson 33 (Hobbes on freedom and the social contract, +14).