Friday, September 03, 2010

Sartre: No Exit

Sartre, Jean Paul. No Exit and Three Other Plays. New York: Vintage Books, 1989.

I

So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people! (45)

So they say (and, in fact, this is where they got it from). Harsh words, and not only harsh: here they are meant literally. No Exit, probably the best-known of Sartre’s plays, takes place in hell. In hell (at least, in Sartre’s hell) there are no flames, no pitchforks, no racks: just a series of rooms, some of which are apparently “Second Empire drawing rooms.” (3) Into this room go three people: Garcin, the reporter; Inez, the postal clerk; and Estelle, the rich girl. Also, there are no mirrors and one no longer sleeps, and one can see what the people still living are saying about oneself on earth. That’s the extent of it. Not very gruesome. So what’s so terrible about it? What is it about being stuck in a room with two other people (granted, it’s forever) that can lead Garcin to make that famous claim about what hell truly is? Whatever the answer is, this is a one-act play, so Sartre had better explain quick.

Of course, at the beginning the three new arrivals are just as confused as we are (amusingly, and not surprisingly when one thinks about it, they were expecting flames and pitchforks and whatnot). When they come to find that it’s a drawing room that they’ve been brought into, and that they don’t seem to be leaving any time soon, they do what one would expect and just kind of sit around awkwardly. Garcin seems nice enough, if a bit cool and distant. Inez is straight-up cold, but she’s honest and a realist, if nothing else. Estelle is somewhat frivolous, but at least she’s cheerful. A strange combination of people, but it could be worse; they could be shacked up with psychopaths or genuine torturers. Granted, it might get tedious after a while as is, but there are greater torments than boredom.

There is at least one thing to keep them busy: the fact that they can see earth. They can only see what involves them, however; people who are talking of them, mourning their deaths, and so on are clear, but when thought of the deceased ends, the vision fades as well. In the end, then, they keep coming back to themselves – or rather, each other.

‘Each other’ is the proper way to put it. It is rather difficult, after all, to just ignore two people whom you’re locked in a room with. They’re always there, even if they’re not talking to you. Eventually, they might notice that little twitch you do (“INEZ: Can’t you keep your mouth still? You keep twisting it about all the time. It’s grotesque.” (9)) It should take more than unconscious tics, though, to drive people to insanity. But it’s Inez, in any case, and she’s just like that. It’s not as though she denies it: “Well, I was what some people down there called “a damned bitch.” Damned already. So it’s no surprise, being here.” (25) Unfortunately, this doesn’t resolve the problem of her being a bitch; an honest bitch is still a bitch. Though she’s also pretty sharp, and with that honesty it leads her to be the first one to state what seems to be going on: “It’s obvious what they’re after—an economy of man-power—or devil-power, if you prefer. The same idea as in the cafeteria, where customers serve themselves . . . . I mean that each of us will act as torturer of the two others.” (17) Or at least Inez will.

II


Not that Inez is having fun herself. Given that, there’s at least one solution to the problem: just stop talking to each other. And that’s exactly what they all do. Hell apparently suffered a rather serious oversight in not considering that people could just quit communicating with each other. Although you have to admit, even when you intentionally avoid talking with someone in the same room (or rather, exactly when you intentionally avoid talking) it’s kind of hard to ignore them. You get a bit self-conscious. Eventually Inez starts singing. Thank you, Inez. Garcin keeps quiet. Estelle has been playing with make-up but then realizes that she has no mirror to see (since, despite not allowing mirrors in hell, they apparently allow lipstick). Apparently even in hell she’s concerned about her lipstick, though it’s not clear who she’s going to impress. Inez, though, is perfectly willing to help her perfect her appearance: “I’m your lark-mirror, my dear, and you can’t escape me . . . .” (21) A bit creepy, though. And she keeps going: “Suppose the mirror started telling lies? Or suppose I covered my eyes . . . .” (21) Estelle seems disturbed at the thought, and Inez clearly has the upper hand. But, as one could guess, it’s not Inez that Estelle is really concerned about. “But I wish he’d notice me, too.” (21)

Now, Garcin is not a particularly attractive man by any measure. At least he has some dignity, though; he died trying to escape from being forced to fight in the war (this was written during the 40s) because he didn’t agree with it. But is he really worth the attention of a pretty girl like Estelle? Inez doesn’t think so, though it might just be more the fact that Estelle wants his attention, and not hers, that’s the problem: “even if I didn’t see her I’d feel it in my bones—that she was making every sound, even the rustle of her dress, for your benefit, throwing you smiles you didn’t see . . . .” (22) It’s rather painfully obvious; Estelle is one of those people who has to always be seen, always put on a show. She lives to be looked at, to be that perfect flower: “how empty it is, a glass in which I’m absent! When I talked to people I always made sure there was one near by in which I could see myself.” (19) Just like a doll; all show, all perfect appearance, with something else altogether behind it, or just nothing at all. Without a mirror, she’s helpless; after all, there is a man in the room, she can’t be a mess in front of him! Inez sees what’s coming from a mile away. Estelle sees a person she cared for on earth; or at least, someone who cared for her. But time passes faster on earth; she is long gone, and he’s found someone else, her friend (or supposed friend, given the circumstances). Just like the minx she is, Estelle wastes no time in turning to Garcin: “I don’t want to be left alone.” (31) Inez doesn’t intend to give them the right of privacy, though she’s surprisingly shaken by the whole thing: “Under my eyes? You couldn’t—couldn’t do it.” (35) But Estelle’s had enough of her gaze, in which “my smiles will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.” (21) Inez feels the situation turning against her; she knows that this won’t go through, because she won’t allow it, because Garcin won’t allow it. But Garcin, who maintained his dignity up to this point, finally gives in to Estelle, in part because he is as tired of Inez as she is.

But something stops him. “Will you trust me?” (36) A final flash of earth, of those who remember him. Coward! they call him. An outright lie; he died for what he believed in. Not surprisingly, Inez doubts this. Turns out she was right: “INEZ: And how did you face death . . . ? GARCIN: Miserably. Rottenly.” (38) But he tried! Or he wanted to try, to be brave, to know himself a brave man. At least Estelle still believes in him. She’s willing to give him everything: “I’m giving you my mouth, my arms, my whole body—and everything could be so simple . . . . My trust! I haven’t any to give, I’m afraid . . . .” (36) Except her trust. Not that it would be genuine, anyway. In a sense, she’s even worse than Inez: “You’re even fouler than she . . . . Like an octopus. Like a quagmire.” (41) At least Inez is honest. Estelle doesn’t have a dignified bone in her body; she only wants attention. Still, why can’t Garcin even earn the trust of the woman who is giving himself to her? He tried to stay silent, but they had to get back to talking. He tried to avoid contact, but they dragged him back in. He took the high ground in every case, and now look where it’s gotten him! He spent his life trying to be a man, trying to be the man he should be with the respect such a man deserves, and now Estelle is clinging out of desperation and Inez is parading his cowardice for the world to see.

At this time Garcin is struggling to force the door open, to escape the liar and the cold-hearted bitch. And it opens. The hall is outside. There is no monster behind the door, no bottomless staircase: they are free to leave.

“GARCIN: I shall not go.” (42)

Why? Garcin has been besmirched; his worth as a person is gone, he has no honor, so long as Inez, who knows his nature, continues to see him as a coward, as someone who never proved himself. And as long as she sees a coward, so does he, and he knows it to be true. “And how did you face death?” The question still hangs over him, because he knows he has no good answer. Estelle will protect him; she couldn’t dare leave Garcin, the only man left, the only one who could worship her. And why would Inez want to leave, when she possess power over Garcin, when he is paralyzed until he earns her seal of approval?

But let’s not pretend that Inez, or anyone else, won this round. Estelle knows what to do: “Kiss me, darling—then you’ll hear her squeal.” (44) Squeal she does; she can throw all the insults she wants, but one act like this shows her powerlessness. Not that that’s forever: “What do you hope to get from her silly lips? Forgetfulness? But I shan’t forget you, not I!” (45) Garcin the coward, forever remembered. The greatest nightmare. Estelle, of course, is caught between the tyrant Inez and the man who can never love her because she could never have an honest respect for him. Inez the tyrant, who dominates those around her with her piercing gaze and cold retorts but crumples when she sees her influence wane. Estelle the seductress, dependent on everyone but herself to accept her, to need her, to worship her, and nothing in a moment when she is no longer the goddess; and Garcin the martyr, the man who must be a man, who must prove himself, but who cannot live until he’s proven it to others. Hell is three people in a room where none can escape the others’ gaze; where one is always watched, always being examined and defined by the other’s eye. You can never control the gaze of the other; it is always free, always behind those eyes, no matter how you try to possess it; it can always turn away, always see you for what you are. An eternity under this power with no reprieve, no rest, is hell. “There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!” (45)

III


One question has not yet been answered: just why were these people sent to hell, anyway? What were their crimes?

Inez lived with her cousin and his wife. The cousin got on her nerves; when he died by freak accident, she threw the widow into a depression by insinuating her in his death. Cold remarks and bitter half-lies took control of the defenseless woman, and Inez relished it:: “When I say I’m cruel, I mean I can’t get on without making other people suffer.” (26) Eventually the widow turned on the gas in the house while Inez was asleep, and both died.

Estelle had an affair with a young but poor man. This man adored her, worshipped her; she was his everything, she possessed him. But then she became pregnant. Now the whole relationship changed, the whole story had to be rewritten; it was no longer innocent love, no longer his pure and simple adoration. “It pleased him no end, having a daughter. It didn’t please me!” (28) She tied the baby to a large stone and threw it into the river. Her lover killed himself soon after.

Garcin the moral had taken a woman from out of poverty and made her his wife. He was her hero, her everything, the most important thing; she lived safe because of what he had done. She believed him perfect. And Garcin exercised this power. “Night after night I came home blind drunk, stinking of wine and women;” (24) he was in bed with one mistress when his wife brought him his morning coffee. She said nothing; “she admired me too much.” (24) She died of grief several months after him.

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