Fluent Essays

his is so Alfred Hitchcock or the Twilight Zone.  You may have YouTubed some of these that were decidedly before your time.   Go to YouTube some time and see a few.  Tightly wound.  Psychologically acute.  Always a “punch” at the end. Sartre’s “The Wall” examines independent action and free will. Society levies restrictions.  The essential is that there is no free lunch.  There is no free anything.  There is always a price to pay.  It might be loss of freedom, diminishment of a sense of self, or cost.  We may think that we are independent, but someone connects our homes with power, someone else paves the road on which we drive, and yet another person operates on an ill person’s appendix.  No man is an island (John Donne).   We might think that we can be free of society, but everywhere man is in chains (Jean-Jacques Rousseau). For this assignment, please examine the role of the Belgian doctor. One paragraph.  C. 100 words. Lead with a targeted thesis. Offer support from the literature. Quotes do not count toward the word range. Provide the word count. exclusive fo quotes. The Wall (short story) 1939 | JeanThe Wall (short story) 1939 | JeanThe Wall (short story) 1939 | JeanThe Wall (short story) 1939 | Jean----Paul SARTREPaul SARTREPaul SARTREPaul SARTRE They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls: they looked alike. I supposed they were French. The smaller one kept hitching up his pants: nerves. It lasted about three hours: I was dizzy and my head was empty; but the room was well heated and I found that pleasant enough: for the past 24 hours we hadnt stopped shivering. The guards brought the prisoners up to the table, one after the other. The four men asked each one his name and occupation. Most of the time they didnt go any further--or they would simply ask a question here and there: Did you have anything to do with the sabotage of munitions? Or Where were you the morning of the 9th and what were you doing? They didnt listen to the answers or at least didnt seem to. They were quiet for a moment and then looking straight in front of them began to write. They asked Tom if it were true he was in the International Brigade: Tom couldnt tell them otherwise because of the papers they found in his coat. They didnt ask Juan anything but they wrote for a long time after he told them his name. My brother Jose is the anarchist, Juan said You know he isnt here any more. I dont belong to any party. I never had anything to do with politics. They didnt answer. Juan went on, I havent done anything. I dont want to pay for somebody else. His lips trembled. A guard shut him up and took him away. It was my turn. Your name is Pablo Ibbieta? Yes. The man looked at the papers and asked me Wheres Ramon Gris? I dont know. You hid him in your house from the 6th to the 19th. No. Page 1 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html They wrote for a minute and then the guards took me out. In the corridor Tom and Juan were waiting between two guards. We started walking. Tom asked one of the guards, So? So what? the guard said. Was that the cross-examination or the sentence? Sentence the guard said. What are they going to do with us? The guard answered dryly, Sentence will be read in your cell. As a matter of fact, our cell was one of the hospital cellars. It was terrifically cold there because of the drafts. We shivered all night and it wasnt much better during the day. I had spent the previous five days in a cell in a monastery, a sort of hole in the wall that must have dated from the middle ages: since there were a lot of prisoners and not much room, they locked us up anywhere. I didnt miss my cell; I hadnt suffered too much from the cold but I was alone; after a long time it gets irritating. In the cellar I had company. Juan hardly ever spoke: he was afraid and he was too young to have anything to say. But Tom was a good talker and he knew Spanish well. There was a bench in the cellar and four mats. When they took us back we sat and waited in silence. After a long moment, Tom said, Were screwed. l think so too, I said, but I dont think theyll do any thing to the kid.. They dont have a thing against him, said Tom. Hes the brother of a militiaman and thats all. I looked at Juan: he didnt seem to hear. Tom went on, You know what they do in Saragossa? They lay the men down on the road and run over them with trucks. A Moroccan deserter told us that. They said it was to save ammunition. It doesnt save gas. I said. I was annoyed at Tom: he shouldnt have said that. Then theres officers walking along the road, he went on, supervising it all. They stick their hands in their pockets and smoke cigarettes. You think they finish off the guys? Hell no. They let them scream. Sometimes for an hour. The Moroccan said he damned near puked the first time. I dont believe theyll do that here, I said. Unless theyre really short on ammunition. Day was coming in through four air holes and a round opening they had made in the ceiling on the left, and you could see the sky through it. Through this hole, usually closed by a trap, they unloaded coal into the cellar. Just below the hole there was a big pile of coal dust: it had been used to heat the hospital, but since the beginning of the war the patients were evacuated and the coal stayed there, unused; sometimes it Page 2 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html even got rained on because they had forgotten to close the trap. Tom began to shiver. Good Jesus Christ, Im cold, he said. Here it goes again. He got up and began to do exercises. At each movement his shirt opened on his chest, white and hairy. He lay on his back, raised his legs in the air and bicycled. I saw his great rump trembling. Tom was husky but he had too much fat. I thought how riffle bullets or the sharp points of bayonets would soon be sunk into this mass of tender flesh as in a lump of butter. It wouldnt have made me feel like that if hed been thin. I wasnt exactly cold, but I couldnt feel my arms and shoulders any more. Sometimes I had the impression I was missing something and began to look around for my coat and then suddenly remembered they hadnt given me a coat. It was rather uncomfortable. They took our clothes and gave them to their soldiers leaving us only our shirts--and those canvas pants that hospital patients wear in the middle of summer. After a while Tom got up and sat next to me, breathing heavily. Warmer? Good Christ, no. But Im out of wind. Around eight oclock in the evening a major came in with two falangistas. He had a sheet of paper in his hand. He asked the guard, What are the names of those three? Steinbock, Ibbieta and Mirbal, the guard said. The major put on his eyeglasses and scanned the list: Steinbock...Steinbock...Oh yes...You are sentenced to death. You will be shot tomorrow morning. He went on looking. The other two as well. Thats not possible, Juan said. Not me. The major looked at him amazed. Whats your name? Juan Mirbal he said. Well your name is there, said the major. Youre sentenced. I didnt do anything, Juan said. The major shrugged his shoulders and turned to Tom and me. Youre Basque? Nobody is Basque. He looked annoyed. They told me there were three Basques. Im not going to waste my time running after them. Then naturally you dont want a priest? We didnt even answer. He said, A Belgian doctor is coming shortly. He is authorized to spend the night with you. He made a military salute and left. Page 3 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html What did I tell you, Tom said. We get it. Yes, I said, its a rotten deal for the kid. I said that to be decent but I didnt like the kid. His face was too thin and fear and suffering had disfigured it, twisting all his features. Three days before he was a smart sort of kid, not too bad; but now he looked like an old fairy and I thought how hed never be young again, even if they were to let him go. It wouldnt have been too hard to have a little pity for him but pity disgusts me, or rather it horrifies me. He hadnt said anything more but he had turned grey; his face and hands were both grey. He sat down again and looked at the ground with round eyes. Tom was good hearted, he wanted to take his arm, but the kid tore himself away violently and made a face. Let him alone, I said in a low voice, you can see hes going to blubber. Tom obeyed regretfully: he would have liked to comfort the kid, it would have passed his time and he wouldnt have been tempted to think about himself. But it annoyed me: Id never thought about death because I never had any reason to, but now the reason was here and there was nothing to do but think about it. Tom began to talk. So you think youve knocked guys off, do you? he asked me. I didnt answer. He began explaining to me that he had knocked off six since the beginning of August; he didnt realize the situation and I could tell he didnt want to realize it. I hadnt quite realized it myself, I wondered if it hurt much, I thought of bullets, I imagined their burning hail through my body. All that was beside the real question; but I was calm: we had all night to understand. After a while Tom stopped talking and I watched him out of the corner of my eye; I saw he too had turned grey and he looked rotten; I told myself Now it starts. It was almost dark, a dim glow filtered through the air holes and the pile of coal and made a big stain beneath the spot of sky; I could already see a star through the hole in the ceiling: the night would be pure and icy. The door opened and two guards came in, followed by a blonde man in a tan uniform. He saluted us. I am the doctor, he said. I have authorization to help you in these trying hours. He had an agreeable and distinguished voice. I said, What do you want here? I am at your disposal. I shall do all I can to make your last moments less difficult. What did you come here for? There are others, the hospitals full of them. I was sent here, he answered with a vague look. Ah! Would you like to smoke? he added hurriedly, I have cigarettes and even cigars. He offered us English cigarettes and puros, but we refused. I looked him in the eyes and he seemed irritated. I said to him, You arent here on an errand of mercy. Besides, I know you. I saw you with the fascists in the barracks yard the day I was arrested. I was going to continue, but something surprising suddenly happened to me; the presence of this doctor no longer interested me. Generally when Im on somebody I dont let go. But the desire to talk left me completely; I shrugged and turned my eyes Page 4 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html away. A little later I raised my head; he was watching me curiously. The guards were sitting on a mat. Pedro, the tall thin one, was twiddling his thumbs, the other shook his head from time to time to keep from falling asleep. Do you want a light? Pedro suddenly asked the doctor. The other nodded Yes: I think he was about as smart as a log, but he surely wasnt bad. Looking in his cold blue eyes it seemed to me that his only sin was lack of imagination. Pedro went out and came back with an oil lamp which he set on the corner of the bench. It gave a bad light but it was better than nothing: they had left us in the dark the night before. For a long time I watched the circle of light the lamp made on the ceiling. I was fascinated. Then suddenly I woke up, the circle of light disappeared and I felt myself crushed under an enormous weight. It was not the thought of death, or fear; it was nameless. My cheeks burned and my head ached. I shook myself and looked at my two friends. Tom had hidden his face in his hands. I could only see the fat white nape of his neck. Little Juan was the worst, his mouth was open and his nostrils trembled. The doctor went to him and put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him: but his eyes stayed cold. Then I saw the Belgians hand drop stealthily along Juans arm, down to the wrist. Juan paid no attention. The Belgian took his wrist between three fingers, distractedly, the same time drawing back a little and turning his back to me. But I leaned backward and saw him take a watch from his pocket and look at it for a moment, never letting go of the wrist. After a minute he let the hand fall inert and went and leaned his back against the wall, then, as if he suddenly remembered something very important which had to be jotted down on the spot, he took a notebook from his pocket and wrote a few lines. Bastard, I thought angrily, let him come and take my pulse. Ill shove my fist in his rotten face. He didnt come but I felt him watching me. I raised my head and returned his look. Impersonally, he said to me Doesnt it seem cold to you here? He looked cold, he was blue. Im not cold, I told him. He never took his hard eyes off me. Suddenly I understood and my hands went to my face: I was drenched in sweat. In this cellar, in the midst of winter, in the midst of drafts, I was sweating. I ran my hands through my hair, gummed together with perspiration: at the same time I saw my shirt was damp and sticking to my skin: I had been dripping for an hour and hadnt felt it. But that swine of a Belgian hadnt missed a thing; he had seen the drops rolling down my cheeks and thought: this is the manifestation of an almost pathological state of terror; and he had felt normal and proud of being alive because he was cold. I wanted to stand up and smash his face but no sooner had I made the slightest gesture than my rage and shame were wiped out; I fell back on the bench with indifference. I satisfied myself by rubbing my neck with my handkerchief because now I felt the sweat dropping from my hair onto my neck and it was unpleasant. I soon gave up rubbing, it was useless; my handkerchief was already soaked and I was still sweating. My buttocks were sweating too and my damp trousers were glued to the bench. Suddenly Juan spoke. Youre a doctor? Yes, the Belgian said. Page 5 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html Does it hurt... very long? Huh? When... ? Oh, no the Belgian said paternally Not at all. Its over quickly. He acted as though he were calming a cash customer. But I... they told me... sometimes they have to fire twice. Sometimes, the Belgian said, nodding. It may happen that the first volley reaches no vital organs. Then they have to reload their rifles and aim all over again? He thought for a moment and then added hoarsely, That takes time! He had a terrible fear of suffering, it was all he thought about: it was his age. I never thought much about it and it wasnt fear of suffering that made me sweat. I got up and walked to the pile of coal dust. Tom jumped up and threw me a hateful look: I had annoyed him because my shoes squeaked. I wondered if my face looked as frightened as his: I saw he was sweating too. The sky was superb, no light filtered into the dark corner and I had only to raise my head to see the Big Dipper. But it wasnt like it had been: the night before I could see a great piece of sky from my monastery cell and each hour of the day brought me a different memory. Morning, when the sky was a hard, light blue, I thought of beaches on the Atlantic: at noon I saw the sun and I remembered a bar in Seville where I drank manzanilla and ate olives and anchovies: afternoons I was in the shade and I thought of the deep shadow which spreads over half a bull-ring leaving the other half shimmering in sunlight: it was really hard to see the whole world reflected in the sky like that. But now I could watch the sky as much as I pleased, it no longer evoked anything tn me. I liked that better. I came back and sat near Tom. A long moment passed. Tom began speaking in a low voice. He had to talk, without that he wouldnt have been able no recognize himself in his own mind. I thought he was talking to me but he wasnt looking at me. He was undoubtedly afraid to see me as I was, grey and sweating: we were alike and worse than mirrors of each other. He watched the Belgian, the living. Do you understand? he said. I dont understand. I began to speak in a low voice too. I watched the Belgian. Why? Whats the matter? Something is going to happen to us than I cant understand. There was a strange smell about Tom. It seemed to me I was more sensitive than usual to odors. I grinned. Youll understand in a while. It isnt clear, he said obstinately. I want to be brave but first I have to know. . . .Listen, theyre going to take us into the courtyard. Good. Theyre going to stand up in front of us. How many? l dont know. Five or eight. Not more. All right. Therell be eight. Someonell holler aim! and Ill see eight rifles looking at me. Ill think how Id like to get inside the wall, Ill push against it with my back. . . . Page 6 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html with every ounce of strength I have, but the wall will stay, like in a nightmare. I can imagine all that. If you only knew how well I can imagine it. All right, all right! I said. I can imagine it too. lt must hurt like hell. You know they aim at the eyes and the mouth to disfigure you, he added mechanically. I can feel the wounds already. Ive had pains in my head and in my neck for the past hour. Not real pains. Worse. This is what Im going to feel tomorrow morning. And then what? I well understood what he meant but I didnt want to act as if I did. I had pains too, pains in my body like a crowd of tiny scars. I couldnt get used to it. But I was like him. I attached no importance to it. After, I said. youll be pushing up daisies. He began to talk to himself: he never stopped watching the Belgian. The Belgian didnt seem to be listening. I knew what he had come to do; he wasnt interested in what we thought; he came to watch our bodies, bodies dying in agony while yet alive. Its like a nightmare, Tom was saying. You want to think something, you always have the impression that its all right, that youre going to understand and then it slips, it escapes you and fades away. I tell myself there will be nothing afterwards. But I dont understand what it means. Sometimes I almost can.... and then it fades away and I start thinking about the pains again, bullets, explosions. Im a materialist, I swear it to you; Im not going crazy. But somethings the matter. I see my corpse; thats not hard but Im the one who sees it, with my eyes. Ive got to think... think that I wont see anything anymore and the world will go on for the others. We arent made to think that, Pablo. Believe me: Ive already stayed up a whole night waiting for something. But this isnt the same: this will creep up behind us, Pablo, and we wont be able to prepare for it. Shut up, I said, Do you want me to call a priest? He didnt answer. I had already noticed he had the tendency to act like a prophet and call me Pablo, speaking in a toneless voice. I didnt like that: but it seems all the Irish are that way. I had the vague impression he smelled of urine. Fundamentally, I hadnt much sympathy for Tom and I didnt see why, under the pretext of dying together, I should have any more. It would have been different with some others. With Ramon Gris, for example. But I felt alone between Tom and Juan. I liked that better, anyhow: with Ramon I might have been more deeply moved. But I was terribly hard just then and I wanted to stay hard. He kept on chewing his words, with something like distraction. He certainly talked to keep himself from thinking. He smelled of urine like an old prostate case. Naturally, I agreed with him. I could have said everything he said: it isnt natural to die. And since I was going to die, nothing seemed natural to me, not this pile of coal dust, or the bench, or Pedros ugly face. Only it didnt please me to think the same things as Tom. And I knew that, all through the night, every five minutes, we would keep on thinking things at the same time. I looked at him sideways and for the first time he seemed strange to me: he wore death on his face. My pride was wounded: for the past 24 hours I had lived next to Tom, I had listened to him. I had spoken to him and I knew we had nothing in common. And now we looked as much alike as twin brothers, simply because we were going to die together. Tom took my hand without looking at me. Page 7 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html Pablo. I wonder... I wonder if its really true that everything ends. I took my hand away and said, Look between your feet, you pig. There was a big puddle between his feet and drops fell from his pants-leg. What is it, he asked, frightened. Youre pissing in your pants, I told him. lt isnt true, he said furiously. Im not pissing. I dont feel anything. The Belgian approached us. He asked with false solicitude. Do you feel ill? Tom did not answer. The Belgian looked at the puddle and said nothing. I dont know what it is, Tom said ferociously. But Im not afraid. I swear Im not afraid. The Belgian did not answer. Tom got up and went to piss in a corner. He came back buttoning his fly, and sat down without a word. The Belgian was taking notes. All three of us watched him because he was alive. He had the motions of a living human being, the cares of a living human being; he shivered in the cellar the way the living are supposed to shiver; he had an obedient, well-fed body. The rest of us hardly felt ours--not in the same way anyhow. I wanted to feel my pants between my legs but I didnt dare; I watched the Belgian, balancing on his legs, master of his muscles, someone who could think about tomorrow. There we were, three bloodless shadows; we watched him and we sucked his life like vampires. Finally he went over to little Juan. Did he want to feel his neck for some professional motive or was he obeying an impulse of charity? If he was acting by charity it was the only time during the whole night. He caressed Juans head and neck. The kid let himself be handled, his eyes never leaving him, then suddenly he seized the hand and looked at it strangely. He held the Belgians hand between his own two hands and there was nothing pleasant about them, two grey pincers gripping this fat and reddish hand. I suspected what was going to happen and Tom must have suspected it too: but the Belgian didnt see a thing, he smiled paternally. After a moment the kid brought the fat red hand to his mouth and tried to bite it. The Belgian pulled away quickly and stumbled back against the wall. For a second he looked at us with horror, he must have suddenly understood that we were not men like him. I began to laugh and one of the guards jumped up. The other was asleep, his wide open eyes were blank. I felt relaxed and over-excited at the same time. I didnt want to think any more about what would happen at dawn, at death. It made no sense. I only found words or emptiness. But as soon as I tried to think of anything else I saw rifle barrels pointing at me. Perhaps I lived through my execution twenty times; once I even thought it was for good: I must have slept a minute. They were dragging me to the wall and I was struggling; I was asking for mercy. I woke up with a start and looked at the Belgian: I Page 8 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html was afraid I might have cried out in my sleep. But he was stroking his moustache, he hadnt noticed anything. If I had wanted to, I think I could have slept a while; I had been awake for 48 hours. I was at the end of my rope. But I didnt want to lose two hours of life; they would come to wake me up at dawn. I would follow them, stupefied with sleep and I would have croaked without so much as an Oof!; I didnt want that. I didnt want to die like an animal, I wanted to understand. Then I was afraid of having nightmares. I got up, walked back and forth, and, to change my ideas, I began to think about my past life. A crowd of memories came back to me pell-mell. There were good and bad ones--or at least I called them that before. There were faces and incidents. I saw the face of a little novillero who was gored tn Valencia during the Feria, the face of one of my uncles, the face of Ramon Gris. I remembered my whole life: how I was out of work for three months in 1926, how I almost starved to death. I remembered a night I spent on a bench in Granada: I hadnt eaten for three days. I was angry, I didnt want to die. That made me smile. How madly I ran after happiness, after women, after liberty. Why? I wanted to free Spain, I admired Pi y Margall, I joined the anarchist movement, I spoke in public meetings: I took everything as seriously as if I were immortal. At that moment I felt that I had my whole life in front of me and I thought, Its a damned lie. It was worth nothing because it was finished. I wondered how Id been able to walk, to laugh with the girls: I wouldnt have moved so much as my little finger if I had only imagined I would die like this. My life was in front of me, shut, closed, like a bag and yet everything inside of it was unfinished. For an instant I tried to judge it. I wanted to tell myself, this is a beautiful life. But I couldnt pass judgment on it; it was only a sketch; I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing. I missed nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had disenchanted everything. The Belgian suddenly had a bright idea. My friends, he told us, I will undertake--if the military administration will allow it--to send a message for you, a souvenir to those who love you. . . . Tom mumbled, I dont have anybody. I said nothing. Tom waited an instant then looked at me with curiosity. You dont have anything to say to Concha? No. I hated this tender complicity: it was my own fault, I had talked about Concha the night before. I should have controlled myself. I was with her for a year. Last night I would have given an arm to see her again for five minutes. That was why I talked about her, it was stronger than I was. Now I had no more desire to see her, I had nothing more to say to her. I would not even have wanted to hold her in my arms: my body filled me with horror because it was grey and sweating--and I wasnt sure that her body didnt fill me with horror. Concha would cry when she found out I was dead, she would have no taste for life for months afterward. But I was still the one who was going to die. I thought of her soft, beautiful eyes. When she looked at me something passed from her to me. But I knew it was over: if she looked at me now the look would stay in her eyes, it wouldnt reach me. I was alone. Tom was alone too but not in the same way. Sitting cross-legged, he had begun to stare at the bench with a sort of smile, he looked amazed. He put out his hand and Page 9 of 14The Wall (1939) | Jean-Paul Sartre 5/28/2009http://pagesperso-orange.fr/chabrieres/texts/sartre_thewall.html touched the wood cautiously as if he were afraid of breaking something, then drew back his hand quickly and shuddered. If I had been Tom I wouldnt have amused myself by touching the bench; this was some more Irish nonsense, but I too found that objects had a funny look: they were more obliterated, less dense than usual. It was enough for me to look at the bench, the lamp, the pile of coal dust, to feel that I was … The Wall John-Paul Sartre Sartre developed the concept of existentialism. An overview of the philosophy follows. John Paul Sartre and the Existential Choice The existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre thought that human beings live in anguish. Not because life is terrible. But rather because, we’re ‘condemned to be free’. Were ‘thrown’ into existence, become aware of ourselves, and have to make choices. Even deciding not to choose is a choice. According to Sartre, every choice reveals what we think a human being should be. Narrated by Stephen Fry. Scripted by Nigel Warburton. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qpXNRrtuo38 War is hell. Existentialism is a response to the “unfathomable” horrors that result from man’s choices. Sartre published The Wall at almost the same time –summer 2937—as Picasso finished Guernica. Guernica was bombed in April 1937. The Wall Reflection When this work was fresh in the public eye, the ending was new and disruptive. It was frightening in its “chance.”   With us and our experiences, “not so much.” The screw that turns the notches of pain is a physician, one trained to save lives.  But here he practices psychological torment – a sort of Mengele.   https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/nazi-medical-experiments There are three prisoners and they are a really diverse group. In common is that they are all male, all accused of crimes against the state and sentenced to die.  The watchers “watch” how each responds to death coming closer with the knowledge that there is nothing that they can do to stop it. There is the wall whose image serves a few purposes.  There is a wall between life and death.  There is a wall which defines behaviors for as long as they can be maintained. There is the wall between those who are condemned and those who are not. There is the wall against which people are stood and then shot. Sartre’s existentialism focuses on choice.  People and cultures may be defined by their choices. EX: Manhood by personal choice or in a certain culture may not include pushing a baby carriage. Making choices requires responsibility for decision making. This can lead to almost constant questioning of possibilities, a certain mindfulness. If I do X, then Y or Z, or AA can result.  They could be taken into subsets of each – almost like backtracking DNA through the generations. How one conducts himself/herself is who he or she is.  The problem is free will with its constant questioning. It seems obvious that choices define us, but Sartre’s was then a newer way at looking at the, at times, quirkiness of life events and situations. So there you have it.  Be in the wrong place at the wrong time, say the word incorrectly (Farming of Bones foreshadowing), do not move quickly enough or too slowly, all is choice –the pain of freedom.