The existential philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre was in Hell. He spoke to no one. He didn’t acknowledge anyone’s existence.
This bothered Harcourt. He wanted an autograph.
He danced in front of Sartre.
He waved his hands.
He did cartwheels and somersaults and shouted and screamed.
Sartre was unmoved. He stood in lonely isolation as if utterly unaware of anyone else around him, which was exactly the case.
In Sartre’s Hell, people did not exist.
Hell, for Sartre, was no people.
