Existence is an imperfection.
To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June
I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.
Once we know and are aware, we are responsible for our action and our inaction. We can do something about it or ignore it. Either way, we are still responsible.
How can I, who was not able to retain my own past, hope to save that of another?
The existentialist says at once that man is anguish.