Camus: That is what I am trying to say.
The Arab looked me in the eye, and made a step towards me with the ball at
his feet. I was blinded. I felt my hand move, and then I heard the thwack
of the ball against my outstretched fist. It rebounded against the Arab, and
he slumped to the ground.
Sartre: Ah yes, the hand, many is the time I have seen my hand move, like an animal, like a crab, with its fat underbelly, the weight of it pulling my arm in unexpected directions...
Camus: That is such a poor excuse for handball.
Sartre: There is some frothy water in
my mouth. I swallow it, it slides down my throat, it caresses me – and
now it is starting up again in my mouth, I have a permanent little pool of
whitish water in my mouth – unassuming – touching my tongue. And
this pool is me too. And the tongue. And the throat is me.
Waiter: Very well, another coffee, sir.
Camus: And one for me. Stop talking like that, Jean-Paul, you are making me feel nauseous. Anyway, they were offside on the first goal. Perhaps the second, too. After that I stopped counting.
Sartre: I was once in a team with a player who was not sure whether it was more important to get back on the field to battle against the imperialist forces of Viacom Outdoor or stay on the touchline to tend to the Gaffer, who was old and sick. In the end I advised him that only he could make that decision, based on his knowledge of himself.