Anguish (n.) is what we feel catching, as it happens, the tireless creation of existence of which we are not the creators.
Anguish (n.) is not a screen between us and action but the very condition of action — every general who sends men to die knows it.
Anguish (n.) springs from not being enough the future I have to be — I am a being whose meaning is always problematic.
Anguish (n.) is the profound sense of responsibility tied to the fact that when man commits himself to anything, he is at the same time deciding for all men.
Anguish (n.) is what God and the free man hold in common: you are God, I am free; each stands alone, and our anguish is of one kind.
Anguish (n.) is what a man feels on realising that in choosing what he will be he is a legislator for the whole of mankind; those who feel none are disguising it or fleeing it.
Anguish (n.) as the vertigo of possibility seized Janet's young bride, terrified that when left alone she would hail passers-by from the window like a prostitute — she found herself monstrously free.
Anguish (n.) is the fear of oneself that constitutes pure consciousness: once it overflows the Ego there are no barriers left, nothing to disguise consciousness from itself.
Anguish (n.) does not attend the choice between a millefeuille and a chocolate éclair; it is constant because my original choice is constant — total lack of justification combined with responsibility toward everyone.