I had another good philosophical discussion with Chat this morning. Here are the results:

Benn: Good morning. I’m seeing some correlation this morning between Nietzsche, Sartre, and Schopenhauer. Nietzsche says, “Zarathustra has mastered the great nausea over man. Man is for him unformed, a material, an ugly stone in needs sculpture. Willing no more, this great weariness, wills joy in begetting.” So I see a correlation between Nietzsche’s nausea, Sartre’s nausea, and Schopenhauer’s willing. Am I wrong?

Chat: Good morning! I don’t think you’re wrong at all. In fact, I think you’re noticing one of the major currents running through nineteenth- and twentieth-century existential philosophy. The three thinkers are asking related questions, but they answer them in very different ways.

Schopenhauer begins with the Will. For him, the fundamental reality is a blind, irrational striving—an endless impulse to desire. Because desire is never permanently satisfied, existence is fundamentally suffering. The only real relief comes through art, compassion, or the denial of the Will.

Nietzsche begins with Schopenhauer but eventually turns him upside down. He agrees that willing lies at the center of life, but he rejects Schopenhauer’s conclusion that the Will should be denied. Instead, Nietzsche says: affirm it. Transform it. Create with it. The passage you quoted from Thus Spoke Zarathustra is about that transformation.

The “great nausea over man” is not disgust with humanity as such. It is disgust with humanity as it currently exists—timid, resentful, complacent. Zarathustra sees human beings as “an ugly stone in need of sculpture.” Humanity is unfinished. The proper response to nausea is not withdrawal but creation.

Notice the progression:

• Schopenhauer: Will → suffering → renounce the Will.
• Nietzsche: Will → suffering → overcome suffering through creative willing.

Then comes Sartre.

Sartre’s Nausea is something different, though related. Antoine Roquentin’s nausea arises when he realizes that existence has no inherent essence or purpose. Things simply are. They exist without justification. That realization is both horrifying and liberating.

So we might sketch it this way:

• Schopenhauer: nausea before endless desire.
• Nietzsche: nausea before the mediocrity of humanity.
• Sartre: nausea before the sheer contingency of existence.

What fascinates me is the line in your quotation: “Willing no more, this great weariness, wills joy in begetting.”

That almost sounds paradoxical, but Nietzsche loves paradox. The exhausted, negative will—the will that merely reacts—dies. In its place emerges a new kind of willing: not willing against the world but willing creation. “Begetting” here is broader than biological reproduction. It means giving birth to values, art, culture, and ultimately to oneself.

Knowing your interest in The Fall and Being and Nothingness, I think there’s another connection worth considering. Albert Camus stands almost exactly between Nietzsche and Sartre. Like Nietzsche, he rejects resignation. Like Sartre, he begins from a world without given meaning. But unlike either, his answer is neither the will to power nor radical freedom alone—it is revolt. We create meaning not because the universe demands it, but because we refuse to surrender to meaninglessness.

I suspect you’ll find an even richer connection when you begin East of Eden. Steinbeck’s recurring Hebrew word, “timshel” (“thou mayest”), centers on the possibility of choosing what one becomes. It isn’t Nietzsche, Sartre, or Schopenhauer—but it resonates deeply with all three. In different ways, each asks the same enduring question:

What do we do once we realize there is no script already written for us?

Benn: We write our own script

Exactly. That is the existential answer.

Sartre would almost certainly agree with your sentence: “We write our own script.” We are not born with a fixed essence; our choices gradually become the story of our lives. As he famously put it, existence precedes essence.

Nietzsche would probably revise your sentence slightly. He might say, “We don’t merely write our script—we become the author, the actor, and the sculptor.” His image of humanity as “an ugly stone in need of sculpture” suggests that we are works in progress, continually shaping ourselves.

Schopenhauer would be the dissenter. He would caution that we think we’re writing the script, but much of what we do is driven by the blind Will operating beneath consciousness. Our freedom is far more limited than we imagine.

Then Camus, whom I know you admire, would add a subtle twist. He might say that we write our script without knowing how the play ultimately ends in any meaningful cosmic sense. Yet that uncertainty is not a reason for despair. It is the very condition that gives our choices dignity. Like Sisyphus, we continue, and in continuing we create value.

Your sentence also reminds me of something you’ve said before about each life being like a book. If life is a book, then every decision is another sentence. We cannot rewrite the chapters already written, but we are always writing the next page.

That’s a thought I think both Nietzsche and Sartre would appreciate.

That’s a wonderful counterpoint, and it brings us back to one of your favorite themes.

If “we write our own script” is the existential perspective, then “the ending is in the first chapter” is the perspective of fate or necessity.

Camus hints at this in several places. The ending—death—is already there from the beginning. Every life, however unique, moves toward the same conclusion. In that sense, the final chapter is indeed present in the first.

Nietzsche’s idea of amor fati (“love of fate”) invites us not to resent that fact but to embrace it. If the ending is fixed, the challenge is not to escape it but to live so fully that we would will our life again, exactly as it was.

Even Sartre, despite his emphasis on freedom, would concede that we do not choose the opening chapter or the closing one. We do not choose to be born, and ultimately we do not escape mortality. Our freedom lies in what we write between those two boundaries.

That reminds me of a line from The Myth of Sisyphus. Camus argues that the certainty of death does not rob life of meaning; instead, it gives urgency and weight to our choices.

So perhaps the two statements belong together:

The ending is in the first chapter. But the story is still ours to write.

I think Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus would all nod to that, though each would mean something slightly different by it. And Schopenhauer, with characteristic pessimism, would quietly remind us that the forces shaping the plot are often deeper than we know.

Benn: And finally, if I might add, Buddha tells us that suffering comes from desire. I believe Schopenhauer was influenced by Buddha.

Yes, and that is a very important connection.

Schopenhauer was one of the first major Western philosophers to take Indian philosophy seriously. He read the Upanishads in translation and was deeply influenced by both Hindu and Buddhist thought. He even remarked that Buddhism was among the greatest religions in the world.

The parallel you point to is striking:

• The Buddha: Suffering (dukkha) arises from craving or attachment (tanha). The path to liberation is not satisfying desire but understanding and ultimately letting go of attachment.
• Schopenhauer: Suffering arises because the Will is endless striving. Every fulfilled desire gives way to another. Peace comes only through quieting or denying the Will.

They are not identical, however. The Buddha’s teaching is ultimately therapeutic and optimistic. The end of suffering—nirvana—is genuinely possible through wisdom, ethical living, and meditation.

Schopenhauer’s vision is much darker. While he admired Buddhism, he saw the world itself as fundamentally tragic. His “denial of the Will” resembles Buddhist non-attachment, but it lacks the Buddha’s emphasis on compassion, awakening, and the possibility of liberation through insight.

Then Nietzsche enters as the great rebel. He thought both Buddhism and Schopenhauer, despite their differences, turned away from life. He wanted not the cessation of willing but its transformation into a joyful, creative affirmation of existence.

It’s fascinating that in the span of a few decades, these three great philosophers form almost a dialogue:

• The Buddha: Understand desire, and suffering can end.
• Schopenhauer: The Will is the source of suffering; negate it.
• Nietzsche: Don’t negate the Will—transfigure it.
• Sartre: There is no given meaning; freedom itself is our condition.

As we’ve been talking over the past few weeks, I can see why these thinkers speak to you. You seem drawn to those who confront existence without illusions but refuse to stop thinking at the first difficult answer. That’s also why it’s not surprising that you find yourself returning to Camus. He stands at the crossroads of these traditions: he accepts suffering and the absence of ultimate guarantees, yet he insists on living with lucidity, dignity, and even joy.

Benn: Yes. Thanks for the good conversation.

You’re very welcome. I’ve genuinely enjoyed this conversation.

One thing I’ve noticed over our discussions is that you don’t read these philosophers simply to learn what they said—you read them in conversation with one another. That’s a rewarding way to read. Nietzsche illuminates Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer throws the Buddha into sharper relief. Sartre responds to Nietzsche, and Camus responds to all of them while charting his own course.

Your observation this morning about nausea, willing, and desire is exactly the kind of connection that makes philosophy come alive. It’s less about proving an influence than about recognizing that these thinkers are wrestling with the same enduring questions:

• Why do we suffer?
• What drives us?
• Are we free?
• How should we live?

They arrive at different answers, but they are engaged in a centuries-long dialogue.

Enjoy East of Eden when it arrives. Steinbeck isn’t usually classified as an existentialist, but I think you’ll find that he belongs in this conversation. His characters wrestle with freedom, inheritance, moral responsibility, and the possibility of choosing who they become—themes that sit comfortably beside Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus.

Thank you for another thoughtful exchange. These Saturday morning philosophical conversations have been a pleasure. Until next time, happy reading.

relief. Sartre responds to Nietzsche, and Camus responds to all of them while charting his own course.

Your observation this morning about nausea, willing, and desire is exactly the kind of connection that makes philosophy come alive. It’s less about proving an influence than about recognizing that these thinkers are wrestling with the same enduring questions:

• Why do we suffer?
• What drives us?
• Are we free?
• How should we live?

They arrive at different answers, but they are engaged in a centuries-long dialogue.

Enjoy East of Eden when it arrives. Steinbeck isn’t usually classified as an existentialist, but I think you’ll find that he belongs in this conversation. His characters wrestle with freedom, inheritance, moral responsibility, and the possibility of choosing who they become—themes that sit comfortably beside Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus.

Thank you for another thoughtful exchange. These Saturday morning philosophical conversations have been a pleasure. Until next time, happy reading.