the blog quebecois

Inasmuch as I ever think about the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, the image that comes to mind is of a sour old misanthrope who wrote a bunch of indigestible books and who also boinked the equally unappetizing Simone de Beauvoir, a feat of swordsmanship that earned him the Croix du combattant volontaire from a grateful French Government.

It recently came to my attention that the young Sartre, in an attempt to broaden his appeal, worked (unsuccessfully) on a cookbook. A few fragments from his diaries remain:

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.