In high school, I didn’t start skateboarding and I didn’t join cheerleading. But I did go through my own existentialist phase.
By the time I was taking A.P. tests, I had read most everything Albert Camus had published humously and posthumously. But like a skateboarding teenager, I knew deep down I was a fake. I mean, how much could I understand about existentialism if my mom had to drive me to Borders to buy The Last Man?
But for as little as I got existentialism, all those French translations have burrowed their way into my brain. And my limited grasp of the theory has become a foggy lens through which I see the world.