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The Buddha vs. Jean-Paul Sartre — Existential Anguish and the Nothingness of Self Imagine, just for a moment, that everything you take to be “you” – your name, your personality, your story – is as unstable as a sandcastle at the edge of the sea. It’s an unsettling thought. We spend our lives crafting identities: professional titles, social media profiles, personal beliefs. Yet in quiet moments – perhaps late at night or during a sudden
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life change – many of us sense a kind of groundlessness. Who are we, really, beneath the ever-shifting waves of experience? And why, even when life seems to be going well, does a subtle ache of dissatisfaction or anxiety often persist? These questions aren’t just intellectual; they strike at the heart of being human. They form a paradox that can feel both terrifying and oddly liberating: the idea that the self might be empty or nothing fixed at all.
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This video essay dives deep into that very paradox, guided by two thinkers from completely different worlds – Gautama Buddha and Jean-Paul Sartre. What could a wanderer in 5th-century BCE India and a French writer of the 1940s possibly have in common? As it turns out, quite a lot. Both grappled intensely with the instability of the self and the pain (and possibility) that comes with it. The Buddha taught the doctrines of Dukkha (suffering or unsatisfactoriness) and
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Anattā (not-self), urging us to see that what we call “self” is a bundle of ever-changing processes – nothing solid, nothing truly ours. Sartre, on the other hand, spoke of existential anguish and portrayed human consciousness as a kind of nothingness at the core of being – with no predetermined essence, “condemned to be free” in a world without given meaning. Why put these two side by side? Because in our 21st-century lives, we’re caught
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in a crossfire of these ideas more than we might realize. We hustle for success and identity in our careers yet feel strangely empty on Sunday nights. We cherish freedom and individuality, but that very freedom can make us anxious – the classic “existential crisis” when we stare at the ceiling wondering what on earth we’re doing with our lives. We crave stability and meaning, yet everything (jobs, relationships, even our own bodies and minds) keeps changing, leaving us with
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an underlying stress that the Buddha identified 2,500 years ago as dukkha. By comparing Sartre’s existentialism with the Buddha’s teachings, we’re not just doing a quirky East-meets-West exercise. We’re addressing a deeply emotional, personal issue: how to confront the nothingness of self and the inherent pain of life in a way that leads to understanding, maybe even liberation. Throughout this journey, we’ll keep the tone conversational and down-to-earth. Think of it
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less as a lecture and more as a late-night café chat – albeit a soul-searching one – with a warm cup of tea (or a strong French coffee) in hand. We’ll explore five main areas of comparison: Existential Anguish vs. Dukkha; The “Nothingness” of Self (Anattā vs. Being-for-itself); Freedom and Responsibility; Approaches to the Human Condition (Authentic Living vs. the Noble Eightfold Path); and Ultimate Goals (Authenticity vs. Nibbāna). Along the way, expect vivid analogies from
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modern life – the loneliness of a crowded city, the stress of office politics, the absurd humor of trying to “find yourself” in a Google search bar. We’ll humanize these heavy ideas with real moments: a glimpse of the Buddha as a young man shocked by the sight of old age and death, or Sartre’s account of a student torn between family and duty during WWII. And yes, there will be a touch of humor too – perhaps a gentle chuckle at our human tendency to take ourselves
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oh-so-seriously even as we sit on a spinning ball of rock in a vast cosmos. By the end, we’ll not only intellectually compare these two philosophies but also feel their emotional resonance. Ideally, you’ll come away with practical insights – maybe even a bit of comfort – for grappling with loneliness, anxiety, identity crises, freedom, and the search for meaning in your own life. So, let’s begin at the beginning: with suffering,
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anguish, and that nagging sense that life isn’t quite as solid or satisfying as we hoped.
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Existential Anguish vs. Dukkha A 1965 photograph of Jean-Paul Sartre, eyes thoughtful behind thick glasses, perhaps mid-discussion at a Parisian café. When Jean-Paul Sartre spoke of “existential anguish,” he wasn’t talking about a fear of spiders or public speaking. He meant a profound, internal unease – the dread we feel upon recognizing our total freedom and responsibility in a universe seemingly without a script.
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It’s that sinking feeling you might get standing on a high balcony and realizing nothing stops you from jumping – not a railing, not a law, only your own choice. In Sartre’s vivid example, the vertigo at the edge of a cliff isn’t just fear of falling; it’s the dizzying realization that you could let go. He calls this anguish: the apprehension of our freedom and the weight of having to choose.
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Sartre famously said “Man is condemned to be free… from the moment he is thrown into this world, he is responsible for everything he does.” Condemned because we never asked for this freedom, yet there it is – we must constantly decide who we are, without any excuse or divine guidance to fall back on. This responsibility for shaping our life can feel like a heavy burden. No wonder many of us
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try to escape it, perhaps by blaming circumstances or adhering rigidly to social norms. But according to Sartre, even refusing to choose is itself a choice – there’s no exit from freedom. And with that inescapable freedom comes an inescapable anxiety. He puts it bluntly: “It is certain that we cannot escape anguish, for we are anguish.” In other words, to be human is to be this very tension; we are the creature who perpetually worries about what to do with ourselves.
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Now, let’s travel across time and space to the Buddha’s world – because the Buddha pinpointed a remarkably similar human predicament, though he described it in a very different vocabulary. The Buddha’s first teaching after his enlightenment was the Four Noble Truths, and the very first truth is Dukkha: often translated as “suffering,” but more accurately understood as the pervasive unsatisfactoriness or stress running through life.
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In the Buddha’s own words, “Birth is suffering, aging is suffering, sickness is suffering, death is suffering; sorrow and lamentation, pain, grief and despair are suffering; association with the loathed is suffering, dissociation from the loved is suffering, not to get what one wants is suffering.” If you listen to that list, it’s basically a catalogue of life’s angsty moments. From mundane frustrations (not getting what you want) to the deepest sorrows of loss,
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the Buddha is making a sweeping claim: life as ordinarily lived is imbued with dissatisfaction. Even pleasant experiences don’t ultimately satisfy, because they fade away or morph into something else. It’s like pursuing a mirage – each time you think you’ve found lasting happiness in a promotion, a relationship, a new gadget, soon enough you feel the next craving or the next discontent. In a way, this is not far from Sartre’s notion that even when we achieve what we
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thought we wanted, we often find ourselves strangely unfulfilled, faced again with the openness of what to do next. The Buddha distilled it poignantly: “In short, the five aggregates of clinging are suffering.” By “five aggregates,” he meant the components of our being (body, feelings, perceptions, mental formations, consciousness) – basically, everything we take to be “us” or “ours.” All of it, he says, is dukkha when clung to. That’s
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a bold statement: it implies that as long as we cling to these ever-changing aspects of life, some level of angst or dissatisfaction is inevitable. So both Sartre and the Buddha start by throwing cold water in our faces: Something about the human condition just isn’t comfortable. But notice the nuance: Sartre’s anguish comes from too much freedom – the vertigo of infinite choices and no absolute guidance. Buddha’s dukkha comes,
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in part, from lack of control – the fact that we and the world are impermanent, beyond our command, and thus cannot be bent to consistently satisfy our desires. At first glance, those might sound like opposites (one says we’re burdened by freedom, the other that we suffer because we’re not in control), but they converge on a core insight: There is no fixed, stable ground to stand on. For Sartre, there’s no given essence or divine plan to tell you who you
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are – you must create yourself, and that uncertainty brings anxiety. For Buddha, there’s no permanent self or stable world to hold onto – everything you call “me” or “mine” is in flux, and that instability, when resisted or misunderstood, brings suffering. Both identified a kind of underlying emptiness at the heart of things: Sartre’s emptiness is the nothingness of the self that must invent itself, and Buddha’s emptiness (while he used different terms like suññatā,
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or voidness) is the insubstantial nature of all phenomena that we foolishly try to grasp. Let’s humanize this a bit. Consider a modern scenario: You’re in your early thirties, scrolling through social media late at night. You see friends posting about career achievements, marriages, kids, world travels. Suddenly you’re hit by a wave of existential angst. “What am I doing with my life?” There’s a pressure – you can choose virtually
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any path (especially if you’re privileged with options), yet that very freedom to choose makes you anxious. This is Sartre’s anguish on a Tuesday night via Instagram. Now, from another angle, perhaps you have a decent life – a job, a partner, etc. – yet you often feel a subtle dissatisfaction. You get the promotion, and a week later you’re stressed and restless again. You love your family, but sometimes feel lonely or misunderstood even among them.
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This is the Buddha’s dukkha in everyday disguise: even when nothing is “wrong,” something feels not-quite-right, because everything is imperfect, impermanent, and not totally under your control. The holiday gathering that was supposed to be magical ends up tinged with awkward tensions; the latest phone you bought loses its novelty after a month; your mind, that inner voice, always seems to find a reason to complain (“It’s too hot… now it’s too cold… I’m too busy… now I’m bored”).
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The Buddha saw in these observations not a pessimistic doom, but the key to liberation: if we can understand why we suffer, we can also find a way out. Sartre, ever the existentialist, offered not a way out of anguish (since for him it’s part of our condition), but a way through it – by acknowledging it and living authentically in spite of it. It’s fascinating: one could say that angst is to Sartre what suffering
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(dukkha) is to Buddha – a fundamental human problem each of us must confront. Both even recognized the reflex to deny this uncomfortable truth. Sartre observed that people often flee anguish by pretending they’re not as free as they are, hiding behind roles or excuses (he calls this bad faith). Doesn’t that sound like, say, someone staying in an unhappy job or relationship because “Well, I have no choice,
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it’s what society expects” – a convenient story to avoid the pain of making a bold change? The Buddha likewise noted that people often distract themselves or cling harder to illusions in order to avoid facing dukkha. We chase the next hit of pleasure, or fiercely defend our ego, anything to not feel the vulnerability of life’s uncertainty. So here we have two diagnoses of the human predicament, East and West: life is pervaded by a kind of suffering/anguish that stems from
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the very nature of existence and selfhood. It’s like an itch we can’t quite scratch. But far from telling us to despair, both Buddha and Sartre invite us to respond to this predicament in a transformative way. Before we get to solutions, however, we need to dig deeper into that notion of self. Why do we feel such anguish or suffering in the first place? What are we, such that life can hurt us like this? This leads us to the next comparison: the idea that the self is, in some sense,
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“nothing” solid – Anattā in Buddhism and Sartre’s concept of the for-itself. The Nothingness of Self: Anattā vs. Being-for-itself Is there a core “me” that stands unchanged throughout life? The Buddha’s startling answer is No. He taught Anattā, often translated as “not-self” or “no enduring self.” This doesn’t mean you, the listener, don’t exist at all; it means that what we think of as “I” is not a fixed, independent entity. Instead, it’s an
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ever-changing process – a bundle of experiences, physical and mental, arising and passing. The Buddha broke down a person into five aggregates: form (the body), feeling, perception, mental formations (like thoughts, intentions), and consciousness. We habitually stitch these together and label it “I” or “mine.” But the Buddha urges a radical reconsideration. In the Anatta-lakkhana Sutta, one of his early discourses, he asks his monks:
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is the body permanent or impermanent? They reply, it’s impermanent – it changes, ages, gets sick. If it’s impermanent, he asks, is it fitting to regard it as “This is mine, this is what I am, this is my self”? “No, venerable sir,” they answer. He goes through feelings, perceptions, and so on the same way. Finally he concludes, “So, bhikkhus (monks), any kind of form whatsoever… feeling… perception…
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formations… consciousness… should be seen as it actually is with proper wisdom thus: ‘This is not mine, this is not I, this is not myself.’” This refrain – “This is not mine; this is not I; this is not my self” – is like a mantra of Anattā. It’s essentially a tool for letting go of our clinging to these components as being who we truly are. At first, hearing “there is no self” can be unsettling or even frightening. Many
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of us in the West have heard it phrased as “the illusion of self.” You might think, “But I feel like I have a self! I have memories, personality quirks, a sense of continuity.” Buddhism doesn’t deny you have a conventional identity; it just says that if you search for a solid core – an unchanging soul or essence – you won’t find one. It’s a bit like a chariot (or to modernize, a car): a car is a convenient designation for a collection of parts assembled
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in a certain way. There’s the engine, wheels, chassis, seats. We say “car” as if it were one thing, but if you take it apart piece by piece, at what point did the “car” vanish? The Buddha uses a similar analogy in other teachings: the self is a conceptual construct on top of many parts. If we cling to the idea of a permanent self, we will inevitably suffer, because life will keep proving that self to be unstable – through aging, through changing
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opinions and moods, through the fact that we can’t ultimately control what happens to “me.” Now, cue Jean-Paul Sartre. Strikingly, Sartre also denies a pre-existing essence or soul, but he frames it differently: “Existence precedes essence,” he declares. What does that mean? It means we exist first, without any predetermined nature, and only later define ourselves through our actions. Sartre basically flips the script that most of history assumed – that humans have some given
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nature (from God, or some intrinsic blueprint) and then we live out that pattern. No, says Sartre, we simply find ourselves here, thrown into the world, and then we make ourselves by our choices. “Man is nothing else but that which he makes of himself,” as Sartre puts it. If that sounds a lot like Buddha’s no-self, here’s why: if you have no preset essence, in a sense you have no self in advance. The self is an ongoing project. It’s not a static thing;
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it’s more of a verb than a noun – a continuous act of definition. Sartre dives deeper with his ontology of the for-itself (pour-soi) vs. the in-itself (en-soi). The in-itself refers to things that are just what they are – a rock is a rock, solid, fully in itself, no gap. The for-itself, which is consciousness (i.e., us), is a strange kind of being that is not self-contained. It is defined by a lack, a nothingness.
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Sartre poetically describes the human consciousness as “a hole of being at the heart of Being.” That’s a pretty metal way to put it – we are a hole of being, a nothingness that questions and negates given reality. Consciousness is always consciousness of something – always beyond itself, pointing to the next possibility, the future, the thing that is not yet. Unlike a stone or a chair, we are never just what we are; we are always what we
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are not yet (planning, hoping, fearing, becoming). If that makes your brain spin, think of it this way: Right now, you are not only what you’re currently doing or feeling; you are also a multitude of possibilities of what you could do next, and you’re aware of those possibilities. There’s always a gap between you and your current state. Sartre’s term for this gap is “nothingness.” It’s the space of freedom, but it’s also why we often
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feel an incompleteness. We are, quite literally, beings riddled with nothingness – and that is why we can change, why we can imagine, why we experience the kind of longing that we do. Notice how this resonates with the Buddhist view: The Buddha would agree that what we think of as “self” is dynamic and contingent, not a fixed substance. In Buddhism, each moment you’re a new configuration of mental and physical phenomena influenced
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by past causes (including past actions or karma). There’s continuity but no core. Sartre would say the self is not a thing but a projection – you are always projecting yourself toward future possibilities, never a finalized object. Both perspectives, in their own idioms, dismantle the idea of a static I. However, there’s a subtle difference in emphasis. The Buddha sees the delusion of self as something
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to be seen through for the sake of liberation from suffering. When you realize deeply that the body and mind are not-self, you stop clinging to them, which leads to peace. Sartre, by contrast, isn’t trying to eliminate the self, but to define its nature: to him, the self (as people ordinarily conceive it) is a sort of fiction we constantly attempt to create. He even wrote an earlier essay called “The Transcendence of the Ego,” arguing that the idea of a personal
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ego is not an inherent property of consciousness, but something consciousness projects. In everyday terms, Sartre might say: You have an image of yourself (your ego, your identity story), but it’s not a solid captain at the helm of your consciousness. It’s more like a character you’re playing, which you can step back from. Doesn’t that sound a bit like Buddhism’s encouragement to view thoughts of “me” and “mine” with a bit of detachment? In meditation,
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for instance, a practitioner might observe “there is anger in me right now” instead of “I am angry,” creating a space that de-identifies from the emotion. This is similar to Sartre’s notion that while you have an ego concept, your true consciousness is not identical to that concept – consciousness is nothingness, a clear space in which such self-concepts appear and disappear. Let’s bring in a concrete story for the Buddha’s
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side. There is a well-known scene where the Buddha, after attaining enlightenment, was asked by a wanderer named Vacchagotta: “Is there a self? Or is there no self?” The Buddha famously responded with silence – he didn’t answer directly either way. After Vacchagotta left, a disciple asked the Buddha why he remained silent. The Buddha explained that if he said “there is a self,” that would be misleading (since it would encourage clinging to something that isn’t ultimately
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there). If he said “there is no self,” Vacchagotta would misunderstand and fall into despair or nihilism (thinking life has no value or moral order). This is important: the Buddha wasn’t just interested in abstract metaphysics; he was concerned with the practical effect of teachings. The point of Anattā is to help us loosen our grip on this idea of “me, mine, myself” which causes so much defensiveness and fear. It’s not to make us feel like meaningless zombies.
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In fact, counterintuitively, realizing selflessness can be profoundly freeing and empowering (more on that later in practical applications). Sartre, too, could lead one toward a kind of liberation through recognizing nothingness. But it’s a different flavor of liberation: it’s the freedom to not be defined by any past or category. For example, Sartre talks about a “bad faith” scenario of a waiter in a café who is overly
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“in character” as a waiter – overly polite, nimble, trying to embody the idea of “waiter” perfectly. In doing so, he’s denying the broader reality that he is not just a waiter – he’s a free human who could at any moment choose to walk away, change jobs, break the act. Sartre isn’t saying to be a flake and abandon your job on a whim, but he’s illustrating how we often imprison ourselves in identities. We forget the nothingness at our core – the part of us that is
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not defined by current roles – and thus we act as if we’re predefined objects with no freedom. Recognizing your inner nothingness (i.e., that you are not a thing but a no-thing, an openness) can jolt you out of that self-imposed prison. It’s like saying: “Hey, you are not your job, not your social security number, not even your past mistakes – you are fundamentally the capacity to reinvent and redefine yourself.”
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There’s an exhilarating side to this. It means, as the existential psychologist Rollo May put it, “The individual’s capacity for self-awareness and hence for freedom is rooted in the fact of non-being” – essentially, because we’re not locked into a being, we can change. Now, if you put the Buddha and Sartre in a room (imagine the conversation!), they’d likely agree on the analysis but diverge on the solution. Buddha would say: Yes, exactly,
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there is no solid self – so stop clinging to “I, me, mine” and you’ll stop suffering. Sartre would say: True, no preordained self – so accept your responsibility to make yourself. Buddha’s no-self is part of a path to Nibbāna (liberation from the cycles of suffering). Sartre’s nothingness of self is part of an exhortation to live authentically (embrace your freedom and the fact that you create meaning). There’s also a nuance in emotional tone. Anattā
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might sound cold or scary (if I’m not a self, what am I?), but in the context of Buddhism it’s actually compassionate and relieving. You realize you don’t have to take everything personally; the pains and changes of life aren’t happening to a little permanent “me” – they’re just natural processes unfolding. It’s like a weight off your shoulders when deeply understood. Sartre’s nothingness can also be intimidating (realizing “I am the void that must give
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itself meaning”), and indeed many find existentialist freedom daunting. Yet, there’s also a kind of dignity in it – Sartre sees it as the basis for human dignity and creativity that we are not fixed cogs in a machine, but self-determining (if anguished) beings. Let’s consider a modern analogy for anattā: Think about your online persona. On social media, you have a profile – maybe a bio, a series of posts, a certain image you curate. Over years,
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that profile might change. Old photos, old opinions, then new ones. Is any one version truly you? Perhaps at any given time you feel “Yes, that’s me,” but looking back, you often feel “Wow, I’m not that person anymore.” The self that you fiercely identified with in high school – with its music tastes and insecurities – has largely evaporated, hasn’t it? Yet something continues. Buddhism would say the you of today is connected by causes and conditions to the you of yesterday,
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but there’s no single essence that traveled untouched from your teens to now. Sartre would add: And indeed, at each point you were nothing but the sum of your actions and choices – and you always had the potential to act differently and thus become different. Both perspectives encourage us not to overly reify any snapshot of ourselves. We are processes, not things. By now, you might be wondering: Okay, so if I’m not a fixed self, and I’m essentially
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this dynamic, empty-of-essence being, how does that help with the pain of life? Good question. For that, we need to look at what each thinker prescribes as a response. This brings us to the realms of ethics and action. The Buddha offered a detailed path (the Noble Eightfold Path) to deal with suffering once you accept Anattā and Dukkha. Sartre, while not giving a “path” in the same systematic way, spoke about living authentically and taking responsibility for one’s freedom.
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In short, once you’ve faced the truth of suffering and nothingness, what do you do about it? Let’s explore how Sartre and Buddha guide us in approaching the human condition constructively. Freedom and Responsibility
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Think back to a moment when you faced a major life decision – say, whether to quit a job, end a relationship, or move to a new city. Remember that weight on your chest, the sense of “What if I choose wrong?” or “I wish someone could tell me what to do.” That feeling captures a slice of Sartre’s notion of freedom and responsibility. Sartre infamously said, “Man is condemned to be free.” It’s a paradoxical phrase. “Condemned”
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because we don’t get to opt out of freedom – not choosing is itself a choice. “Free” because, in the absence of any fixed destiny or external authority dictating our essence, we alone are the authors of our actions. And with that authorship comes total responsibility. In Sartre’s view, there’s no God or fate to blame, no “human nature” that forces your hand. If you lie, you chose to lie. If you stay in a comfortable but unfulfilling job,
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that too is a choice you continuously remake every day you show up to the office. This sounds harsh – and it is. Sartre wanted us to feel the full brunt of this realization, not to wiggle away from it. The anxiety or anguish that accompanies deep freedom is, in a sense, the proper response to understanding how much it matters what we do. He gives the example of a French student during the Nazi occupation,
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torn between two courses of action: stay in France to care for his elderly mother (his only remaining family) or go to England to join the Free French Forces and fight for liberation. No moral law or guru can tell him which is absolutely right. If he values patriotism and the greater good, maybe he should fight; if he values filial duty and compassion for his lonely mother, maybe he should stay. Sartre’s point is that no general ethic can eliminate the anguish
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of such a choice – the student must choose, and in doing so, he in a way defines what virtue is for him in that moment. To Sartre, this heavy responsibility for our choices (and by extension, our lives) is part and parcel of being free. When he says we’re responsible for all men, he means that in choosing, we create an example – we are implicitly saying “this is what a human being should do” and thus
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we bear a kind of universal responsibility. It’s as if each of us is a lawmaker who, in every action, legislates a value for the world. No pressure, right? Now, the Buddha also talks about responsibility, but in a different key. Rather than framing it in terms of existential choice without excuse, the Buddha frames it as kamma (karma in Sanskrit) and ethical intention. In Buddhism, kamma literally means “action,” and especially intentional action.
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The Buddha said, “Intention, I tell you, is kamma. Intending, one does kamma by way of body, speech, and intellect.” This underscores that our volitions are what drive our moral life. Every choice – even what you think or say, not just what you physically do – plants a seed that will have consequences. Unlike Sartre’s universe, the Buddha’s universe has a sort of natural moral law: wholesome intentions (like kindness,
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generosity, wisdom) eventually lead to pleasant outcomes or mental peace, and unwholesome intentions (like greed, hatred, deceit) lead to suffering down the line. This isn’t a simplistic tit-for-tat or immediate cause-effect; it’s a complex web that can span lifetimes in Buddhist thought. But crucially, we are responsible for our own deliverance. There’s a famous verse where the Buddha says, “You yourselves must strive; the Buddhas only point the way.”
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No one – not even a supremely enlightened being – can “save” you unless you walk the path yourself. This insistence on personal effort echoes Sartre’s insistence on personal choice. Both philosophies, in their own context, say: No one else can live your life for you. The Buddha, like Sartre, rejects the idea of an external savior or fixed fate that overrides your own role. He even says if it were impossible to overcome unwholesome traits and cultivate
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good ones, he wouldn’t bother teaching; but because it is possible through one’s own effort, he urges his followers to “abandon what is unskillful” and “develop what is skillful.” However, there is a difference in flavor. In Buddhism, freedom is not emphasized in the absolute terms Sartre uses. After all, Buddhism acknowledges we are conditioned beings – our choices arise within conditions (our past karma, our current circumstances, our mental habits).
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We do have free will in Buddhism (otherwise moral effort would be meaningless), but it’s a conditioned freedom, not a Cartesian “free agent floating in a vacuum.” Sartre’s freedom can feel almost absolute, to the point that he says even a person in chains is free to interpret and react to that situation (albeit not free to undo the chains by magic). Sartre downplays the constraints to highlight that internal freedom of choice of attitude and meaning always remains.
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Buddhism would agree we always have some degree of choice, but it also teaches humility about what is in our control versus not. A classic Buddhist contemplation is distinguishing between the arrows life shoots at you and the arrows you shoot yourself. For example, aging, illness, and death – those are arrows life inevitably fires at all of us (in other words, they’re beyond our choice; they will
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happen). But the despair, panic, or denial we might respond with – those are optional second arrows we shoot into our own heart due to mental habits (and those we can learn to let go of). In a way, Buddhist karma introduces a cosmic accountability: you are accountable for your actions not because of a human convention, but because the fabric of reality is such that unwholesome acts bring suffering and wholesome acts bring benefit, sooner or later.
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Sartre’s accountability is more of a radical personal accountability in the face of moral relativism: since there’s no God or inherent value, we bear the full weight of valuing. Interestingly, both approaches converge on encouraging ethical behavior, but from different angles. The Buddha might say, “Avoid harming others because that harm will come back to you (and them) as suffering – and ultimately there are no ‘others’ in a deep sense, because all beings fear pain as you do.”
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Sartre might say, “Avoid harming others because in choosing how to treat another, you are choosing what it means to be human – do you really want to define humanity as cruel or unjust? Also, in a very real sense, you’re responsible for that choice entirely.” There’s a story of the Buddha that illustrates personal responsibility well. One day, someone asked the Buddha: “Why do some people have good fortune and others bad? Why are some born into comfort and others into misery?”
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The Buddha’s answer was essentially the law of karma – our actions (in past lives and present) are the complex causes of our conditions. But more practically, he often emphasized present intentional action as what we should focus on. You can’t change the fact that you stubbed your toe yesterday (that karmic seed has sprouted), but you can choose how to react now. Will you scream at your spouse because you’re in pain (thus sowing seeds of discord),
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or will you mindfully endure and maybe ask calmly for a bandage (sowing seeds of patience)? In each moment, you have the responsibility to make the most ethical or mindful choice possible, because that is literally constructing your character and your future conditions. Sartre would wholeheartedly agree with the urgency of each moment’s choice – except he would add that any choice is up to you to justify. If you decide to get angry and shout,
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you can’t say “Oh, I have a bad temper, that’s just how I am” – Sartre would call that bad faith, denying your freedom in that moment to have done otherwise or to own up to it. Let’s compare how a person might handle guilt or regret in each framework. In Buddhism, guilt is generally seen as an unwholesome state to be avoided – not because you should be remorseless, but because guilt (as distinct from healthy remorse) can
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wallow and paralyze. The Buddha encourages an acknowledgement of wrong, resolve to do better, and then moving on. The focus is future-oriented: how can I make amends or change my behavior? Karma is not fate; it’s an ongoing ledger that you can always influence with new actions. In existentialism, regret can similarly be paralyzing. Sartre might say: if you made a wrong choice, you have to accept that was your freedom exercised,
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and now own it and transform it by making better choices. There’s a kind of sternness in both: You can’t time-travel and undo the past, but you can take responsibility now. In Sartre’s play “No Exit,” one of the famous lines is “Hell is other people,” which is often misunderstood (he meant it in a particular context of how we let others’ gaze define us). But perhaps a more fitting Sartrean motto here is: Heaven or hell is our own making through choices.
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Before we move on, let’s not overlook how empowering this can be. Yes, both Sartre and the Buddha load our plate with responsibility, but they also hand us the utensils for freedom. If our present life is largely the result of our past actions (Buddha) or past choices (Sartre), then our future is open, shaped by what we do now. The Buddha even says, in one sutta, that if it were not possible to abandon unwholesome
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qualities and develop wholesome ones, he wouldn’t ask us to – but because it’s possible, that’s exactly what he instructs. There is a deep optimism in that: no matter how screwed up you think you are, you can always take a step on the path to liberation right now. Sartre’s optimism is that no matter how boxed in you feel by circumstances, you can always assert your freedom in attitude or imagination or small actions – you’re never
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a complete object. You might not change external reality much (if you’re, say, unjustly imprisoned, you can’t snap your fingers and leave), but you can decide what that imprisonment means to you, whether it breaks you or whether you find some kernel of human dignity to hold onto. In this sense, Sartre’s existentialism and the Buddha’s Dhamma both teach a kind of radical self-reliance. There’s no one else to blame – which is scary – but
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also no one else needed to empower you to change – which is liberating. All this talk of responsibility might sound a bit grave. You might be picturing existentialists gloomily talking in smoky rooms, or Buddhist monks sternly meditating in forests. But both traditions, at their heart, aim at a form of liberation. For Sartre, it’s the liberation that comes with authenticity – owning one’s freedom and thereby living a genuinely chosen life.
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For the Buddha, it’s the liberation from the bonds of craving and ignorance – attaining Nirvana, the ultimate freedom from suffering. So let’s turn to how each envisions the way we should live to address the human condition: Sartre’s idea of authentic living (and how to avoid bad faith), and the Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Path as a comprehensive guide to end dukkha. Approach to the Human Condition: Authenticity vs. the Noble Eightfold Path
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How should we live, given the truths of anguish, anatta, freedom, and responsibility? Sartre’s answer can be summed up in one word: authentically. And the Buddha’s answer can be outlined in eight: the Noble Eightfold Path. These are very different frameworks, but each is a response to the respective diagnosis of the human condition. Let’s unpack them. Authenticity in the existentialist sense (a term actually more elaborated by Sartre’s
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contemporaries like Heidegger and de Beauvoir, but certainly relevant to Sartre) means living in honest acknowledgment of the reality of your freedom and the reality of your situation. In plainer terms, it’s about not lying to yourself. Sartre identified a common pitfall called mauvaise foi or bad faith. Bad faith is essentially self-deception to escape existential anxiety. For example, the waiter
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we mentioned earlier who pretends he’s just a waiter and not a free individual who could choose otherwise – he is in bad faith, playing a role too wholeheartedly to dodge the angst of freedom. Another classic Sartre example: a woman on a first date who chooses to ignore the obvious sexual undertones of her companion’s compliments, neither accepting nor rejecting the implied advance – she lets her hand remain in his,
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pretending not to notice it, delaying the moment of choice. She is hovering in bad faith, trying not to acknowledge her freedom to respond either yes or no to his interest. In each case, authenticity would mean owning up to what’s really happening: “I am more than this social role” or “I know what I’m doing here and I accept responsibility for it.” To live authentically is to stand face-to-face with the truth of your condition
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(that you’re a being who chooses, in a world that might not have inherent meaning except what you give it) and still act with integrity to your own chosen values. Authenticity for Sartre doesn’t mean be true to some inner self (remember, there is no fixed inner self to be true to). It means be true to the fact that you are the one choosing your self. It means not hiding behind formulas, authorities, or excuses.
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This can lead to a life of great courage and creativity. Consider someone like Sartre himself, who during World War II was involved in the French Resistance. He risked his life because he believed in freedom and took responsibility for fighting oppression. Or consider any person today who defies societal pressure to follow their own meaningful path – say, leaving a high-paying job to work on climate activism because they feel that’s more
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authentic to their values. There’s no external rule commanding that; it’s an internal commitment. To do that, one often has to battle bad faith temptations like “Well, everyone else is just trying to get by, maybe I should too,” or “Who am I to think I can make a difference?” The authentic choice is what feels truly “yours” in the sense that you fully endorse it upon reflection, even if it’s hard or goes against the grain.
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Now contrast this with the Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Path, which is a structured approach to end suffering. The eight factors are usually grouped into three trainings: wisdom (paññā), ethical conduct (sīla), and mental cultivation (samādhi). Specifically, the path is: Right View, Right Intention, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, Right Concentration. Despite the somewhat stiff translation of
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“right,” these aren’t meant as authoritarian commandments, but as practical guidelines. Right View means understanding reality as the Buddha described – particularly understanding the Four Noble Truths (that there is suffering, it has causes like craving, it can end, and the path leading to its end). Right Intention means aligning your motivation with renunciation, goodwill, and harmlessness (as opposed to desire, ill-will, and cruelty). These first two are the
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wisdom component – basically having the correct understanding and resolve to seek liberation. Then come the morality pieces: Right Speech (no lying, harsh speech, slander, or idle chatter – basically speak truthfully and kindly), Right Action (don’t kill, steal, or engage in sexual misconduct; instead, act honestly and peacefully), and Right Livelihood (don’t engage in trades that harm others – e.g., don’t be a weapons
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dealer or drug peddler; earn a living in an ethical way). These might sound like rules, but they’re all about creating a life that causes minimal harm and maximal benefit, which in turn supports inner peace. If you lie and harm, your mind is agitated and relationships suffer; if you live ethically, you have self-respect and trust from others – fertile ground for happiness. Next, the mental cultivation: Right Effort means making a continual,
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balanced effort to prevent unwholesome states and to cultivate wholesome states in your mind. Right Mindfulness is the practice of clear awareness of body, feelings, mind, and principles (dhammas) – essentially living with attentive presence and insight moment to moment. And Right Concentration refers to developing deep meditative absorption (jhāna), which focuses and tranquilizes the mind, allowing it to see things as they are.
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That’s a lot, but one striking thing is how comprehensive the Buddha’s approach is: it addresses our view of reality, our heart’s intentions, our day-to-day ethical behavior, and our inner mental training. It’s like a holistic therapy for the human condition. If dukkha is the illness, the Eightfold Path is the cure. It’s quite practical – you can observe precepts, meditate, etc., and see results in reduced greed, hatred, and delusion.
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Now, how does authenticity compare to the Eightfold Path? On the surface, Sartre’s approach seems less structured. There’s no “Eightfold Path to Authenticity.” Existentialism intentionally resists such formulas; it would ironically be inauthentic to just follow a preset list to be authentic! Instead, existentialism asks each person to create meaning and ethics through living. That said, existentialists do discuss values and how an authentic person might
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behave. They emphasize commitment – once you choose a purpose or project that matters, you should own it fully (not half-heartedly). There’s also an emphasis on honesty and courage, because authenticity often requires confronting uncomfortable truths (like one’s own contradictions or society’s expectations) and acting in spite of fear. Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre’s close companion, wrote about ethical existentialism,
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suggesting that true freedom for oneself also involves wanting freedom for others – implying compassion or at least solidarity is a component of authentic ethics. This is interestingly parallel to Buddhist ethics which stress compassion for all beings. Let’s imagine an authentic person vs. a Buddhist practitioner: they might look quite similar in some ways – perhaps both are compassionate, mindful
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of their actions, and not blindly following the crowd. But their inner compass differs. The authentic person’s compass is self-derived values (they give life meaning through chosen commitments). The Buddhist practitioner’s compass is the Dhamma – the natural truth of suffering and the path, which they seek to embody. For the Buddhist, an action is “right” if it leads towards liberation and is rooted in non-greed, non-hatred, non-delusion. For the Sartrean,
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an action is “right” if it’s truly what they choose with clear awareness, and it doesn’t betray their freedom or the freedom of others. (Sartre would despise, for instance, acting just because “that’s what one does,” or enslaving others – which would deny their freedom.) One way to appreciate the difference is to consider conformity vs. individual conscience. Both Buddha and Sartre valued individual conscience. The Buddha frequently encouraged
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critical inquiry – he even told the Kalama people not to believe something just because it’s tradition or someone revered said so, but to test if it leads to welfare or harm. Sartre famously lived in defiance of many bourgeois norms; he championed the individual’s capacity to transcend social roles. So neither was a fan of sheep-like behavior. But the reason behind it: Buddha’s reason was that blind belief can lead you astray from the
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true path and cause harm, whereas discernment (yoniso manasikāra) leads you to see things clearly and act skillfully. Sartre’s reason was that blind conformity is a form of bad faith – it’s surrendering your freedom to “what people do” rather than owning your decisions. Thus both would say: don’t just do something because society says so. The Buddha might add: do it because it’s genuinely skillful (reduces suffering); Sartre might add: do it because it’s genuinely your decision.
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Another interesting comparison: community and solitude. The Buddha’s path is often seen as something cultivated in community (the Sangha of monks, nuns, lay followers) and in relationship to others (one practices kindness, ethical livelihood affecting others, etc.). Authenticity in Sartre’s work is more often discussed at the individual level (though he later engaged more with social ethics). Sartre says “Hell is other people” not
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to mean people are awful, but because other people make it hard for us to be free – we risk turning each other into objects (the famous “look” that pins you). For the Buddha, other people can be challenging too (some Buddhist texts are candid about how living with others can stir defilements like anger), but fundamentally the ideal relationship is one of compassion and equanimity. The Eightfold Path includes Right Speech, Action, Livelihood –
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which are inherently relational. It’s about being authentic and kind in dealings with the world, because your treatment of others directly affects your own mind and karmic trajectory. At this point, we might summarize: Sartre gives us an attitude; Buddha gives us a path. Authenticity is an attitude of honesty and responsibility one must continually maintain. The Noble Path is a specific program of practice to purify one’s vision, conduct, and mind.
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Could an existentialist follow the Eightfold Path authentically? Possibly, yes – if they chose to believe in the Buddha’s teaching by their own free commitment. And could a Buddhist be existentially authentic? Arguably, yes – a Buddhist has to take the Buddha’s teachings and verify them personally (the Buddha often said “Ehi-passiko” – come and see for yourself). The Buddhist notion of ehipassiko is almost an
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invitation to authenticity: don’t take this on bad faith; experience it, make it real for you. Let’s bring a narrative moment here: Picture a person, say a woman in her forties, at a crossroads. She’s a high-powered lawyer (insert generic successful career) but feels empty and ethically conflicted about her work. She also has always felt a pull towards spirituality or maybe helping others more directly.
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A Sartrean approach to her situation: she’d realize she’s free to redefine herself – the anxiety she feels is the sign of her freedom to choose a more authentic life. Perhaps she decides to quit and start a nonprofit, or go teach, or simply practice art – whatever she can truly throw herself into and say, “This is mine, I own this choice.” It might shock her family or colleagues, but living
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in good faith demands she follow her authentic project rather than stay for prestige or inertia. Now a Buddhist approach to her: she might reflect on right livelihood. Perhaps her law firm was defending corporations that harm society – that’s causing suffering, which pricks her conscience. She remembers the principle that livelihood should ideally be at least harmless if not positively beneficial. So, guided by compassion
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and the wish to reduce suffering (both hers and others’), she makes a change. Maybe she doesn’t even quit law entirely, but takes on cases that align with her values (like pro-bono work for the disadvantaged). Alongside, she starts meditating and realizes how restless and craving-driven she had been. Over time, following the Eightfold Path, she becomes calmer, more content with less income, because she finds meaning in service and in spiritual growth.
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Both paths – though described in different language – led her to a life of greater integrity and fulfillment. One framed it as personal authenticity, the other as ethical and spiritual alignment with Dharma. We should also note humor and warmth – these approaches to living are not meant to make one a stern, joyless person. On the contrary, a genuinely authentic person can be very alive, even playful,
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because they’re not pretending. Think of the friend who has no facade – they are as they are, maybe quirky, but you trust them deeply. There’s a lightness in that. Similarly, a Buddhist walking the path often develops a kind of bright kindness; they become gentle, easier to smile, because they carry less ego and resentment. Compassion and even humor naturally arise when you’re not so self-absorbed. The Buddha himself was known to use skillful means sometimes with a twinkle – there
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are witty dialogues where he exposes someone’s ego with a clever question and a kind smile. Sartre was not exactly famous for humor, but existentialist themes have ironically produced quite a bit of comedic art (think of the movie Groundhog Day, which is basically an existential parable about creating meaning). The human condition, when seen clearly, is both tragic and comic – we are these tiny beings searching for meaning on a spinning rock,
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and there’s something a little bit funny about our serious dramas. Both an enlightened Buddhist and an enlightened existentialist might chuckle about that, albeit kindly. Now we’ve covered how to live day-to-day. What about the ultimate aim? This is where the contrast really sharpens. Sartre doesn’t posit an ultimate state or salvation; authenticity is an ongoing process until death. The Buddha very much posits an ultimate goal:
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Nibbāna (Nirvana), the extinguishing of the fires of greed, hate, and delusion – a transcendence of the cycle of suffering altogether. How do these endgames – authenticity and Nirvana – stack up? Let’s conclude our analysis by comparing what “success” looks like in existentialism versus in Buddhism. Ultimate Goals: Authenticity vs. Nibbāna If life is a journey, where did Sartre and the Buddha imagine this journey ideally leads?
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For Sartre and existentialists, there isn’t a final destination one reaches like a trophy; rather, the goal is more about how one travels. The “goal,” if we can call it that, is living an authentic, meaningful life of one’s own creation. It’s a bit like saying the goal of dancing is not to end up at a certain spot on the floor, but to dance well – passionately and truly – until the music stops.
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In existentialism, death is the ultimate end of individual existence, and there’s no afterlife or eternal bliss to attain (Sartre was an atheist). So, the focus is on making meaning here and now. Sartre would likely say an authentic life is its own fulfillment. Even though we are anguish, as he said, we can also take ownership of that anguish and not be paralyzed by it. An authentic person dies with the knowledge that they lived their life,
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not someone else’s; they didn’t sleepwalk through existence or live as a phony. They might not be “happy” in a conventional sense every moment – life might be full of struggle, even despair at times – but there is a kind of dignity and peace in knowing one faced reality and made choices in accordance with one’s truth. Sartre also spoke of commitment – the idea that we define ourselves by our commitments
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to causes or projects. So if someone, say, dedicates their life to humanitarian work out of a deep freely-chosen concern for others, that commitment gives their life an objective meaning (because they’ve made it so). They won’t point to a heaven or a next life; they’ll point to what they did, who they became through their actions. One might ask: does Sartre expect any kind of contentment or is it all just responsibility and no reward? It’s true, existentialism doesn’t promise
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bliss. But there is a certain joy in authenticity – a J.S. Bach famously said, “The authentic person experiences a sense of adventure and curiosity in the very act of shaping a self.” (Okay, Bach didn’t say that – but he should have!). In seriousness, think of moments you’ve been deeply immersed in something you chose – maybe writing a book, raising a child, or even just traveling spontaneously. Even when it was hard,
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you probably felt alive. That aliveness is what existentialists want for us: a life where you’re awake to your freedom and actively engaging in the project of living. In Sartre’s novel Nausea, the protagonist Roquentin feels a wave of disgust and meaninglessness about existence – everything seems absurd. But in the end (spoiler alert for a philosophical novel), he realizes that he can create meaning,
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for instance through music or writing – “to do something” as an affirmation of existence. It’s a modest redemption: existence may have no inherent meaning, but it’s not a lost cause if you pour meaning into it. That’s as close to a happy ending as Sartre gives. It’s like, meaning isn’t found, it’s made – and making it is a kind of salvation from despair. Now, turn to the Buddha’s ultimate goal: Nibbāna (Nirvana). Here we have a very clear
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“there” to get to (even if it’s a there that is ultimately beyond conventional conceptions). Nirvana is described in the texts with an array of evocative terms: the deathless, the unconditioned, the supreme peace, the island in the flood, the refuge, the ultimate freedom. It’s the extinguishing of the “three fires” of greed, hatred, and delusion. When those are gone, dukkha is gone because you no longer cling to anything that can cause suffering.
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One who reaches Nirvana in this life (an arahant, or fully enlightened person) still experiences pain and pleasure in a physical sense, but their mind no longer reacts with craving or aversion. So they are said to be “liberated” – here and now – and upon death, they won’t be reborn (in Buddhist cosmology, that’s an ultimate release). It’s not annihilation, exactly, nor is it a heaven; it’s a liberation beyond description. In fact, one sutta says that
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describing Nirvana in terms of self or not-self doesn’t apply, because it’s beyond all conditioned phenomena. Often it’s defined negatively: no more greed, no more hate, no more delusion. But the result is profoundly positive: boundless compassion and equanimity, unshakeable peace. The Dhammapada, a beloved Buddhist text, says “There is no bliss higher than the peace of Nibbāna.” and “Nibbāna is the highest bliss.” Imagine the deepest contentment you’ve ever
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felt – multiply that, and imagine it untainted by any fear or restlessness or doubt. That’s the kind of fulfillment Nirvana promises. It’s an end in a way that authenticity is not – Nirvana is the finish line of the path, after which one’s task is done. From a Western standpoint, one might equate Nirvana to something like enlightenment or spiritual awakening, which sounds very lofty. It is. It’s beyond normal experience, though
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accessible through the path. A key difference: Nirvana is universal – meaning, it’s the same goal for everyone. There isn’t “my Nirvana” vs. “your Nirvana.” It’s a truth or reality to be realized. Authenticity is individual – my authentic life will look different from yours. There’s no one-size-fits-all project. In fact, Sartre would be suspicious of any suggestion that there’s one ultimate goal for all humans besides the general condition of making choices. So
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where Buddhism says “This is the ultimate reality and peace, attainable through X, Y, Z,” Sartre says “There is no ultimate given meaning – you have to choose your direction.” However, interestingly, both emphasize a kind of freedom as the peak. In Buddhism, Nirvana is often equated with the ultimate freedom (vimutti) – freedom from suffering, freedom from the compulsions of craving and ego. In existentialism, authenticity is about exercising freedom fully.
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In either case, freedom is bliss – but defined differently. Sartre’s freedom is the freedom to, to do or to become (freedom as agency), while Buddha’s freedom is freedom from – from the binding forces of greed, hate, delusion (freedom as release). One might say, borrowing a phrase: Sartre’s freedom is the freedom of action, the Buddha’s is the freedom of non-attachment. Another interesting parallel: both ultimate goals involve a reconciliation with nothingness. For
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Sartre, you never get rid of the nothingness at your core – you just learn to live with it and use it (freedom again). For a Buddha or enlightened person, they’ve seen through the illusion of self (nothingness of self realized) and seen the emptiness of all phenomena (in Mahayana terms, śūnyatā). They fully embrace that emptiness – but they’re at peace with it. Actually, in Buddhism, the realization of emptiness is said to be inseparable from compassion and bliss. So,
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where an unawakened person might find the idea “everything is empty” depressing or scary, an awakened one finds it beautiful and liberative. Possibly, if an existentialist truly faces the nothingness of existence, they too might break through fear into a kind of exhilaration. Think of the moment you stand under a sky full of stars, aware of your smallness (nothingness) – you might feel insignificant, but also a strange awe and
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freedom knowing that in this vast emptiness, anything is possible. Emptiness can be freeing. It’s worth noting that neither Sartre nor Buddha advocates nihilism (though both were accused of it by detractors). Nihilism would say “there’s nothing meaningful, so nothing matters.” Buddha clearly believes a great deal matters – ethical living matters, ending suffering matters supremely. Sartre also believed life can
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have intense meaning – just that it’s self-made, not handed down from heaven. When criticized, Sartre responded that existentialism, far from plunging people into despair, is actually an optimistic philosophy – because it declares that no matter what, you are free and can find a way forward. Similarly, the Buddha’s teaching, while starting with “life is suffering,” is profoundly hopeful because it says suffering has an end if you follow the path diligently.
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So what about emotional resonance of these end goals? Nirvana might evoke the image of a serene monk under a Bodhi tree, smiling gently in deep tranquility. Authenticity might evoke the image of, say, a passionate artist who lives boldly and dies satisfied that they truly lived. Both are appealing in different ways. One is about transcendence (stepping out of the whole play of human trivialities into a higher peace),
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the other about immanence (finding depth and meaning within the human condition itself). Some might say the Buddha’s goal is otherworldly (even though it’s experienced here and now, it’s beyond normal existence), whereas Sartre’s is worldly (all within life). However, Buddhist enlightenment also manifests in the world – enlightened people still walk and talk and help others, they don’t evaporate (until maybe after death, depending on your interpretation).
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There’s a story of Thaṇḍa, a villager who asked the Buddha, “What do you gain from meditation and enlightenment?” The Buddha replied, “Nothing. But let me tell you what I lost: anger, anxiety, depression, insecurity, fear of old age and death.” That captures Nirvana’s pragmatic side: it’s the elimination of negatives, resulting in unshakeable contentment. Sartre might have quipped, “Well, remove anxiety and you remove the zest of being
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human!” – he often felt these discomforts are part of the human tapestry. Yet I suspect even Sartre would admire someone who had truly conquered their inner demons – as long as they did it themselves and not by clinging to some illusory crutch. In the end, perhaps the goals converge in a surprising way: authenticity and Nirvana both result in fearlessness and genuine presence. The enlightened
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Buddhist has no fear of death or anything else; they have no selfish attachments left, so what is there to fear or be hurt? They fully accept reality as it is. The authentic existentialist, while they might still fear things (as any human might), confronts those fears head-on and doesn’t let them dictate an inauthentic life. They too face reality as it is – no comforting lies, just raw existence which they sculpt. Both, ideally, meet the world with clear eyes and an open heart.
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Before wrapping up, let’s also acknowledge: few reach the “ultimate” in either system. Not everyone becomes a Buddha, and not everyone becomes a completely authentic hero. These are asymptotic goals – guiding stars. But even moving toward them improves one’s life. You might not attain Nirvana in this lifetime, but by practicing the path, you’ll almost surely become a kinder, calmer, wiser person. You may not become a paragon of existential
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authenticity in every waking moment (we all have our self-deceptions now and then), but by striving for it, you can lead a life with more courage and personal meaning than if you hadn’t tried. In that sense, both philosophies have practical value even short of their ultimate promises. We’ve journeyed through a lot: suffering and angst, no-self and nothingness, freedom’s burden, ethical living, and the highest ideals of each. It’s time now to distill some practical
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applications for our everyday modern lives – because all this philosophy only matters if it can speak to that loneliness at 2 AM or that anxiety on Monday morning or that identity crisis at midlife. Let’s translate these grand ideas of the Buddha and Sartre into some down-to-earth advice and reflections that we can actually use. Practical Life Applications
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Compare doctrines; it’s another to face an empty apartment on a lonely night, or to deal with a thankless job, or to figure out who you are in a world that often seems shallow or chaotic. Here are some actionable and emotionally resonant ways we can draw on both the Buddha’s and Sartre’s insights to navigate common struggles: - Dealing with Loneliness and Feeling “Unseen”: Both existentialism and Buddhism start from
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acknowledging some form of emptiness. Sartre might say: “Yes, you are alone in the sense that no one else can live your life or make your choices – but this also means you have the freedom to create connections on your own terms.” Instead of seeing loneliness as a curse, you can view it as the space in which you choose how to relate to others, authentically. For example, if you feel isolated in a crowd (a common urban experience), realize that nothing is stopping you from reaching
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out – strike up a genuine conversation, seek out a community or cause that matters to you. True, it’s a risk – you could be rejected or misunderstood – but Sartre would nudge you that not choosing (staying in silent loneliness) is still a choice, and likely a less fulfilling one. Meanwhile, the Buddha would approach loneliness from a different angle: “Who is alone? What is this ‘I’ that feels so separate?” He’d encourage a contemplation of Anattā: much of our loneliness
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comes from the sense of being a fixed self cut off from others. Through practices like loving-kindness meditation (mettā), you can expand your sense of self to include others, breaking down the barrier. You realize others suffer and feel lonely just like you – this understanding ironically makes you less lonely, because you see you share a common human experience. On a practical level: try sitting quietly and sending kind wishes to people – friends, family,
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strangers, even difficult people. “May they be happy, may they be at peace.” This Buddhist exercise softens the heart and often melts that icy loneliness into a feeling of connectedness. In essence: Sartre gives the pep talk to take responsibility to find your people (or create new relationships bravely), Buddha gives the method to feel connected even when you’re physically alone – by realizing anattā (no separate self) and cultivating compassion.
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- Facing Anxiety and Identity Crises: Anxiety, especially existential anxiety, can feel like a free-floating dread with no easy fix. When you’re anxious about who you are or what you’re doing with your life, Sartre’s perspective can be oddly comforting: that anxiety is not a sign that something’s gone wrong – it’s a sign you’re alive and aware. It’s the birth pain of freedom. Instead of trying to numb it, you might ask, “Okay,
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what is this anxiety telling me about my life? Is it because I’m not living in accordance with what I deeply value?” If yes, that’s an invitation to change course. If you’re hit with an identity crisis – say you realize you hate the career you spent a decade building – existentialism gives you permission to pivot. “Existence precedes essence” means you weren’t born to be a lawyer or a coder or whatever;
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you can reinvent yourself. It’s never “too late” while you’re alive. Sure, there are consequences to big changes, but you remain free to choose and responsible for those choices. Sartre might even advise a bit of humor here: recognize the absurdity in how seriously we sometimes take arbitrary labels. You might chuckle at the fact that you spent years thinking you had to be X because that’s “who you are,” when in fact you can be many things.
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The Buddha’s approach to anxiety and identity is to gently dismantle the cause of anxiety – often our attachments and erroneous perceptions. Mindfulness practice is a direct tool. Feeling anxious? Sit and observe the feelings in the body and mind without identifying (“I am anxious” can shift to “There is anxiety present”). Watch it like weather – clouds that come and go. The Buddha discovered that clinging – whether to an identity, an outcome, or an expectation – is what
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turns natural worry into pervasive anxiety. By using mindfulness and insight, you can literally watch anxious thoughts arise and fade without chasing them. This creates space and calm. Also, reflecting on impermanence (anicca) helps in an identity crisis: every aspect of you has changed over time; this current upheaval is just another change. And because things change, today’s confusion can be tomorrow’s clarity.
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On a practical note: journaling can be a quasi-Buddhist-existential practice. Write down “Who am I?” and answer it from Sartre’s view (“I am what I do – so what do I want to do now?”) and from Buddha’s view (“What experiences and qualities are present right now, and are they truly ‘me’?”). You may find, after some pages, that the identity that felt so solidly “in crisis” is actually quite fluid and open. That realization itself reduces anxiety and
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opens you up to creative possibilities. - Coping with Workplace Pressure and “The Rat Race”: Many people feel like they’re on a treadmill – the 9-to-5 grind, the mortgage, the expectations. It can feel meaningless or suffocating. Sartre would likely challenge you: “Who are you doing this for? If it’s truly your choice to prioritize, say, providing for your family or achieving certain goals, then own it – do it as your project. But if you’re just on
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the track because everyone else is, wake up! You’re free to step off or change direction.” In practice, that might mean re-evaluating your definition of success. Perhaps authenticity calls for a better work-life balance, even if it means a smaller paycheck. There’s a quietly rebellious joy in deciding, “I don’t actually care about climbing this corporate ladder I’m ‘supposed’ to care about – I’d rather garden in the afternoons or play with my kids.”
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Existentially, that’s valid – you’re choosing your value (family time or personal sanity over societal status). The Buddha would add: remember Right Livelihood. Is your work in line with your values and causing no harm? If not, the dissonance will cause dukkha. Maybe that’s one reason for your stress. He’d also advise bringing mindfulness into your workday to break the cycle of autopilot. Even small acts, like taking a 5-minute breathing break or eating lunch without scrolling on
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your phone, can restore a sense of presence instead of feeling like a hamster on a wheel. Moreover, Buddhism encourages contentment (santutthi) – an antidote to the endless craving for more that fuels the rat race. A small reflection: each morning, list three things you’re grateful for in your life/job. Gratitude and contentment douse the fire of constant craving, making you feel more fulfilled with
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what is, rather than fixated on what’s missing. Paradoxically, when you stop running frantically, you often work better and live healthier, because you’re not burning out your spirit. - Finding Meaning in Meaninglessness: What if you just can’t find meaning in anything? Perhaps you resonate with the protagonist of Sartre’s Nausea, feeling that everything is arbitrary. Here’s where we can really blend the approaches. Sartre says:
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meaning is not “out there” to be found; it’s something you have to actively create. If nothing seems meaningful, that’s actually a blank canvas (albeit an intimidating one). It might help to perform what existentialists call an “act of choice.” Pick something – anything slightly appealing or worthwhile – and commit to it for a while. For instance, volunteer at a shelter, or start writing that novel idea you had as a kid, or learn an instrument. Don’t
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overthink whether it’s your ultimate passion; just start. Often, meaning coalesces in the doing. You may find that through the act of helping others or creating art, life starts to feel less empty. As Sartre said, “It is in the moment of making a decision that we define our values.” So, decide and see how value sprouts from that seed. Meanwhile, Buddha might say: sometimes meaninglessness is actually a sign
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you’re on the verge of a deeper insight. It’s like the ground is being cleared for a more profound understanding beyond the superficial meanings. In Buddhism, one ultimately sees that chasing transient things for meaning is futile – but that doesn’t lead to despair; it leads to seeking a more spiritual fulfillment. Meditation can reveal a quiet joy in simply being, in awareness itself, without needing external validation.
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Also, serving others is hugely meaningful in Buddhism: by alleviating suffering even a little, you participate in the Buddha’s mission. The Buddha often advised people suffering from depression or loss to go help someone else in need, to get out of their own obsessive loops. It turns out, making someone else’s life meaningful (by kindness or generosity) ends up making yours meaningful too. On a very down-to-earth level, if you’re grappling with
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“What’s the point of it all?”, try this Buddhist trick: perform a random act of kindness every day for a week. See how it feels by the end. That warm glow you get when someone smiles because of your small act – that’s a spark of meaning. It’s not cosmic or grandiose, but it’s very real. And often, that can ignite a sense of purpose to keep going, keep giving, keep living. - Embracing the “Nothingness of Self” to Ease Psychological Burdens:
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In the age of self-help, we’re often told to “find yourself” or “be the best version of yourself.” Both Buddhism and existentialism might cheekily respond: Which self? There is no fixed self to find; you’re free (and not bound) to be many versions. This can be applied therapeutically. For example, if you’re someone who’s always labeled yourself “a failure” because of past mistakes, consider Anattā – the past you is not a permanent essence. You’ve changed and you can change.
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Or if you’re rigidly holding onto an identity – “I’m an introvert, that’s just how I am” – and it’s limiting you, remember Sartre: you are not in-itself (a fixed object), you are for-itself (a fluid being). Maybe you can step out of the old pattern and surprise yourself. The nothingness of self means you’re not as trapped in your personality as you think. Tiny exercise: do something that “isn’t you” once in a while. If you
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always avoid dance floors because “I’m not a dancer,” go dance anonymously somewhere; if you always suppress your opinions because “I’m shy,” try voicing one in a low-stakes setting. You might feel a bit of existential thrill – “Whoa, I can be different!” This loosens the mental knots of identity that cause suffering. Buddhism takes it further with meditation on the five aggregates, systematically noting that each aspect of you (feelings, thoughts, etc.) is not self.
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This can be deeply healing: suppose you suffer from anxiety – instead of “I am anxious,” you practice seeing anxious feelings as impersonal phenomena: “Anxiety is arising and passing in the mind, like a cloud.” You observe it, maybe note its impermanence, and suddenly it’s not you, it’s just an experience. People with chronic pain do a similar thing: rather than “my pain,” they think “there is pain,” which psychologically creates space and reduces suffering.
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This technique is a direct application of anattā to very human issues. In all these applications, we weave the two perspectives. The Western audience we speak to is likely neither going to renounce life and meditate in a cave, nor entirely disregard spiritual ideas in favor of pure self-determination. We are creatures of both mind and heart, reason and intuition. Sartre speaks to our mind and will,
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urging us to take charge, while Buddha speaks also to our heart, urging us to let go and open up. When you’re anxious, sometimes you need Sartre’s kick in the pants (“you’re free – act!”), and sometimes you need Buddha’s gentle hug (“breathe, let go of that tight selfing”). They’re complementary. One gives courage, the other gives calm. One says “Do”, the other “Be.” Together, they can help us “be, thoughtfully doing” or “do, mindfully being.”
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Finally, it’s time to conclude with a reflection that ties this all together – an emotional and philosophical parting note. And what better way than with a memorable quote that encapsulates the spirit of what we’ve explored? Conclusion
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We began with a paradox: that our very self might be “nothing,” and that this nothingness could be the source of our deepest anguish – and perhaps our liberation. Along this journey, we’ve seen the Buddha, in his compassionate analysis, reveal that clinging to a false idea of self and chasing satisfactions that can’t last only leads to suffering. And we’ve watched Sartre, with his unflinching gaze, strip away our excuses and confront us
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with our freedom – daunting as it may be – to create meaning in an absurd world. It’s been a tale of two insights: one of letting go, and one of stepping up. And maybe, just maybe, they’re two sides of the same human quest for peace and authenticity. Emotionally, there’s something profoundly reassuring in knowing that a wise teacher over two millennia ago and a bold philosopher in the last century both grappled with the
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very feelings we have today – the stress, the emptiness, the longing for purpose. They didn’t sugarcoat it. The Buddha walked away from a royal life of pleasure because he realized that no amount of luxury could hide the realities of sickness, aging, and death; he made it his mission to find a deeper truth. Sartre, after seeing the horrors of war and the shallowness of societal facades, refused to accept that we’re just cogs in a predetermined machine;
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he proclaimed with fierce hope that we are free, we are responsible, and we can imbue our lives with meaning through our choices. Both, in their own way, believed in the potential for human transcendence – not through divine intervention, but through understanding and confronting reality. What can we take away from their combined wisdom? Perhaps a kind of fearlessness in facing ourselves. We can learn, like the Buddha taught, to gently observe our pain,
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our cravings, and our egos and realize “This is not mine, not I, not myself” – thereby loosening suffering’s grip. And we can learn, as Sartre exemplified, to stand up in the midst of uncertainty and say “No one else is going to write my story for me; the pen is in my hands.” We can strive to be compassionate with others (and ourselves) because we see everyone is struggling with dukkha in one way or another. We can also strive to be
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authentic and brave, because, in a very real sense, our life is our art – and we wouldn’t want to leave this world having painted someone else’s portrait instead of our own. In the spirit of unity between these two perspectives, consider this: The Buddha might encourage Sartre’s existentialist hero to find serenity amidst freedom, and Sartre might encourage the meditating monk to not use emptiness as an excuse to
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sit things out when moral action is needed. We don’t have to choose one over the other. We can be existentialists with hearts of compassion, or Buddhists with a streak of rebellion. We can meditate in the morning on the not-self nature of thoughts, and then spend the afternoon boldly making choices that align with our values. Both paths ultimately ask us to wake up – wake up from illusion, wake up from conformity – and to live with eyes wide open.
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As we wrap up, let’s end with a quote that beautifully captures the empowerment at the core of all this. It’s a reminder that, despite all the uncertainties, we hold the steering wheel. In the words of Jean-Paul Sartre, “Man is nothing else but that which he makes of himself.” Each of us, moment by moment, choice by choice, is crafting our being. And in that truth lies both our burden and our liberation – the anguish of our freedom and the glory of our nothingness, all at once.
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So go forth and make yourself, gently knowing, as the Buddha would smile and add, that in the grand dance of the universe, there was never a solid self to lose – only the chance to become free.
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