mentos1d

After reading accounts of Sartre's highly unpleasant experiences with the then-infant compound LSD, this book made more sense on the whole, though taken as an independent perspective of one man's interior world (and a fictional world at that, severed from the corresponding reality of the author) I found it illuminating and full of abstract though vivid imagery. I read it in conjunction with a class on Existentialism while living in Copenhagen, so the atmosphere provided certain nuances to the experience of reading the book, I'm sure. I'm torn on Sartre's conclusion - is the impending 'invasion' of the vines and other converging plantlife about the town a cause for fear or celebtation, or neither, and instead the breaking point at which freedom from futility is fully realized?

2023-01-06 09:16