Does 'Existentialism Is A Humanism' Reject Religion?

I’ve always been fascinated by the debates around 'Existentialism is a Humanism' because Sartre’s lecture seems to simplify existentialism into something almost too digestible. Critics argue he watered down the darker, more complex themes of his earlier work to make it palatable for a general audience. The lecture frames existentialism as an optimistic philosophy centered on human freedom and responsibility, but this glosses over the inherent absurdity and despair in works like 'Nausea' or 'Being and Nothingness'. Some philosophers, especially those aligned with Heidegger, accused Sartre of misrepresenting existentialism by focusing too much on individual choice and ignoring the weight of historical and social structures. What’s really controversial is how Sartre’s humanist turn clashes with his earlier rejection of universal human nature. By claiming existentialism is a humanism, he seemed to backtrack on the idea that existence precedes essence, which was radical at the time. Camus and others saw this as a contradiction—how can you champion absolute freedom while also appealing to shared human values? The lecture also drew flak for being too abstract; it talks about responsibility but doesn’t address concrete political or ethical dilemmas. It’s like Sartre tried to make existentialism a feel-good philosophy, which rubbed purists the wrong way.

Reading Sartre's 'Existentialism is a Humanism' was like having a philosophical lightning bolt strike me. His definition of freedom isn’t about doing whatever you want—it’s about the terrifying, exhilarating responsibility of creating your own meaning. Sartre argues we’re condemned to be free because we’re thrown into existence without a predefined purpose. Every choice we make isn’t just about us; it’s a statement about what humanity *should* be. If I choose to lie, I’m implicitly saying lying is acceptable for everyone. That weight is what makes freedom so intense. What stuck with me is how he ties freedom to authenticity. Pretending we’re not free—blaming society, genes, or horoscopes—is acting in 'bad faith.' True freedom means owning our choices, even when it’s agonizing. Sartre uses the example of a young man torn between joining the Resistance or caring for his mother. There’s no cosmic answer; his freedom lies in choosing and living with the consequences. This isn’t abstract—it’s why the book still guts me. Freedom isn’t a comfort; it’s a relentless demand to invent ourselves, moment by moment.

Reading Sartre's 'Existentialism is a Humanism' feels like having a philosophical adrenaline shot. The core argument is that existence precedes essence—we aren’t born with predetermined purposes but create meaning through our choices. This freedom is terrifying because it comes with absolute responsibility; there’s no divine plan or moral compass outside ourselves. Sartre slams excuses like "I was just following orders"—his famous "bad faith" concept—arguing we’re always free to choose, even in oppression. He also tackles criticisms head-on, like existentialism being too gloomy. Nope, he says it’s actually optimistic: if we’re condemned to be free, we can always reinvent ourselves. The text brilliantly connects individualism with collective responsibility—our choices shape not just us, but humanity’s image. It’s raw, urgent philosophy for anyone questioning life’s weight. What sticks with me is how Sartre turns existential dread into empowerment. Unlike religious or ideological doctrines handing you a prepackaged purpose, his philosophy forces you to confront life’s chaos head-on. The lecture-style delivery makes complex ideas accessible—no jargon, just straight talk about anguish (the dizziness of freedom), abandonment (no God to guide us), and despair (we can only control our actions). His rebuttal to Marxists and Christians is savage: both systems dodge accountability by outsourcing morality. The kicker? Even not choosing is a choice. By framing humans as works-in-progress, Sartre makes existentialism a call to action rather than navel-gazing.

I've read 'Existentialism is a Humanism' multiple times, and it's surprisingly short for how impactful it is. The entire text is roughly 70 pages in most standard editions, making it a quick but dense read. Sartre packs his ideas about human freedom and responsibility into this lecture-turned-essay without unnecessary fluff. The beauty lies in its conciseness—every paragraph carries weight. I’d compare it to a philosophical shot of espresso: small, intense, and leaves you buzzing with thoughts. If you’re new to existentialism, this is perfect because it’s approachable in length while still delivering profound insights. The actual lecture was about an hour long, and the written version captures that same direct, conversational energy.

I’ve read 'Existentialism is a Humanism' multiple times, and while it’s one of Sartre’s more accessible works, it’s not exactly light reading. The text is a lecture-turned-essay, so the tone is conversational compared to his denser philosophical writings, but it still demands attention. Sartre dives into heavy concepts like existential freedom, anguish, and responsibility without much hand-holding. If you’re new to philosophy, some passages might feel like mental gymnastics—especially when he ties individualism to moral accountability. The clarity comes in bursts, like his famous "existence precedes essence" line, but you’ll need to wrestle with sections where he debates objections from critics or unpacks abstract ideas like "bad faith." What makes it manageable is its length. At under 100 pages, it’s a sprint, not a marathon. You can reread tricky paragraphs without feeling overwhelmed. I’d recommend pairing it with secondary sources or YouTube breakdowns if you hit a wall. The payoff is worth it—Sartre’s vision of human agency is electrifying once it clicks. Just don’t expect a beach read; this is the kind of book that lingers in your head for weeks, challenging how you see everyday choices.

Kierkegaard's 'Either/Or: A Fragment of Life' dives deep into existentialism by presenting two contrasting life views—the aesthetic and the ethical—without outright favoring either. The aesthetic life is all about immediacy, pleasure, and fleeting beauty, like a melody that fades once played. The ethical life, though, embraces commitment, responsibility, and enduring meaning, like a symphony with recurring themes. The book doesn’t preach but lays bare the tension between these paths, forcing readers to confront their own choices. Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous authorship adds layers, making you question who’s really speaking—or if it matters. The work’s brilliance lies in its refusal to simplify existence; it mirrors life’s messy, unresolved dilemmas. By framing existentialism as a lived struggle rather than abstract theory, it feels raw and personal, like a diary left open for interpretation.

Reading 'Grendel' feels like staring into the abyss while the abyss stares back, and honestly, it's exhilarating. The novel dives deep into existentialism by making Grendel question everything—his purpose, the meaning of life, and whether any of it matters. He’s not just some mindless monster; he’s painfully self-aware, which makes his isolation even more tragic. The way he observes humans and their futile attempts to create meaning through heroism and religion is brutally ironic. They build kingdoms, tell stories, and worship gods, but Grendel sees it all as empty noise. The dragon’s nihilistic philosophy hits even harder—he basically tells Grendel that existence is pointless, and all actions are meaningless in the grand scheme. Yet Grendel keeps struggling, which is the most human thing about him. The novel doesn’t offer answers; it just forces you to sit with the discomfort of uncertainty, and that’s what makes it so powerful. What’s fascinating is how Grendel’s journey mirrors modern existential crises. He’s trapped between wanting to believe in something and knowing it’s all probably nonsense. The Shaper’s songs briefly give him hope, but that illusion shatters fast. The humans’ cyclical violence and Grendel’s own repetitive attacks highlight the absurdity of existence. There’s no grand plan, just chaos. The beauty of 'Grendel' is how it makes nihilism feel almost poetic—like even if nothing matters, the struggle to find meaning is still worth something. It’s a dark, messy, and deeply relatable exploration of what it means to be alive in a world that might not care.

Greg Egan's 'Diaspora' dives deep into post-humanism by showing how humanity evolves beyond biological limits. The novel introduces 'uploads'—digital copies of human minds that can live in virtual environments or control robotic bodies. These beings don’t age or die like humans; they can modify their own code to change personalities or abilities. It’s a radical shift from flesh to data, where identity becomes fluid and death is optional. The book also explores 'polises,' massive virtual cities where post-humans thrive without physical constraints. Here, they form new societies with rules beyond human comprehension, like creating shared consciousness or splitting into multiple versions of themselves. Egan even imagines 'orphans,' AI-born beings with no human origin, questioning what it means to be human at all. The story pushes boundaries, making you rethink life, purpose, and evolution in a universe where biology is just an outdated phase.