In No Exit, Jean-Paul Sartre suggests that true misery comes from the human inability to control the nature of one’s own existence. To make this point, he portrays hell as a simple drawing-room that accommodates three recently deceased people—Garcin, Inez, and Estelle. As they acquaint themselves with their new surroundings, they recognize the absence of a torturer, wondering how, exactly, they’ll be punished. After falling into arguments, though, they realize they’ve been placed in the drawing-room to inflict agony upon one another, acting as their own torturers. Exasperated that he’s forced to spend eternity with Inez and Estelle, Garcin declares, “Hell is—other people!” This sentiment is one of Sartre’s most well-known ideas, but it has certain implications many people don’t consider. While the idea that hell is “other people” addresses the difficulty of getting along with others, it doesn’t simply mean that agony arises from the irritating presence of a person’s fellow humans, as some might assume. Rather, the idea suggests that human interaction fundamentally alters a person’s sense of self. Determined to see himself in a certain light, Garcin can’t stand the idea of Inez looking at him and seeing something other than what he wants to be. In turn, Sartre implies not that “other people” are inherently torturous, but that the nuances of human interaction interfere with a person’s ability to conceive of him- or herself in a particular way.
Sartre frames the human impulse to connect with others as nearly inescapable. When the hell-dwellers realize they’ve been put in the drawing-room to psychologically torture one another, Garcin decides that they should stop speaking. “No, I shall never be your torturer,” he says. “[…] So the solution’s easy enough; each of us stays put in his or her corner and takes no notice of the others. […] Also, we mustn’t speak. Not one word. That won’t be difficult; each of us has plenty material for self-communings.” Going on, he notes that he himself thinks he could spend 10,000 years with his own thoughts. However, his plan to avoid the torture of human interaction fails. First, Inez and Estelle can’t keep themselves from talking to each other, and then even Garcin himself gives in and responds to the various things he’s heard them say. In turn, Sartre intimates that the human desire to interact with others is quite strong. After all, these three people know that connecting with each other will be torturous, and yet they’re still unable to resist the urge to communicate.
Since Garcin has tried and failed to keep to himself, he decides that each of the hell-dwellers should explain why they think they’ve been condemned. This way, he upholds, they’ll be able to “bring [their] specters into the open,” which he believes will keep them from “disaster.” However, this plan backfires, since all three of them end up using their shortcomings against each other. For instance, Inez becomes jealous of Garcin because Estelle—whom she lusts after—has taken an interest in him, so she weaponizes what he’s said about his time on earth. Because he was killed for being a military deserter, he’s obsessed with whether or not people think of him as a coward—a piece of information Inez uses to upset him. To do this, she refuses to reassure him that he isn’t a coward, no matter how hard he tries to convince her. To add to this, Garcin realizes that Inez is the only person whose opinion he cares about, since Estelle will say anything to get him to sleep with her. As a result, he fixates on the way Inez sees him, becoming so consumed by the matter that he chooses to stay in the drawing-room when the door miraculously opens, forgoing the opportunity to escape his tormentors. In this moment, then, Garcin’s interactions with Inez keep him from freedom (or at least some kind of freedom)—a sign that he endures misery because of his relationships with other people.
Since Garcin suffers (and allows himself to continue suffering) as a result of his interactions with Inez, it makes sense that he associates the misery of hell with “other people.” “You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the ‘burning marl,’” he says. “Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!” He utters these words after Inez says she’ll never stop looking at him, making it impossible for him to do anything without contemplating how she’ll perceive him. In other words, her gaze ruins his ability to conceive of himself the way he wants.
Similarly, Estelle—who is greatly concerned about the way she looks—is distraught that there aren’t any mirrors in the drawing-room, which means she can’t confirm her sense of self. When Inez offers to let her study her own reflection by looking into her eyes, Estelle says she dislikes the feeling that accompanies the experience. “You scare me rather. My reflection in the glass never did that; of course, I knew it so well. Like something I had tamed…I’m going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become,” she says. Couched within this sentiment is a fear of losing oneself by engaging in human interaction. Estelle can’t control the way Inez (or anyone) perceives her, and this throws her into existential uncertainty. In keeping with this, it becomes clear that both she and Garcin are unable to escape the fact that they can’t control how others see them.
This, Sartre implies, is how human interaction and subjectivity influence a person’s sense of self, and though Garcin may believe that misery comes directly from other people, it actually comes from his own existential insecurities, which simply arise when he interacts with others. Thus, dealing with others is torturous because such exchanges make it impossible for people to manipulate their own perspectives and identities.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Human Interaction, Control, and Sense of Self ThemeTracker
Human Interaction, Control, and Sense of Self Quotes in No Exit
I won’t make a scene, I shan’t be sorry for myself. I’ll face the situation, as I said just now. Face it fairly and squarely. I won’t have it springing at me from behind, before I’ve time to size it up. And you call that being “romantic”! . . . So it comes to this; one doesn’t need rest. Why bother about sleep if one isn’t sleepy? That stands to reason, doesn’t it? Wait a minute, there’s a snag somewhere; something disagreeable. Why, now, should it be disagreeable? . . . Ah, I see; it’s life without a break.
So that’s the idea. I’m to live without eyelids. Don’t act the fool, you know what I mean. No eyelids, no sleep; it follows, doesn’t it? I shall never sleep again. But then—how shall I endure my own company? Try to understand. You see. I’m fond of teasing, it’s a second nature with me—and I’m used to teasing myself. Plaguing myself, if you prefer; I don’t tease nicely. But I can’t go on doing that without a break.
GARCIN: I can quite understand that it bores you having me here. And I, too—well, quite frankly. I’d rather be alone. I want to think things out, you know; to set my life in order, and one does that better by oneself. But I’m sure we’ll manage to pull along together somehow. I’m no talker, I don’t move much; in fact I’m a peaceful sort of fellow. Only, if I may venture on a suggestion, we should make a point of being extremely courteous to each other. That will ease the situation for us both.
INEZ: I’m not polite.
GARCIN: Then I must be polite for two.
INEZ: Can’t you keep your mouth still? You keep twisting it about all the time. It’s grotesque.
GARCIN: So sorry. I wasn’t aware of it.
INEZ: That’s just what I reproach you with. [GARCIN’S mouth twitches.] There you are! You talk about politeness, and you don’t even try to control your face. Remember you’re not alone; you’ve no right to inflict the sight of your fear on me.
Please, please don’t use that word. It’s so—so crude. In terribly bad taste, really. It doesn’t mean much, anyhow. Somehow I feel we’ve never been so much alive as now. If we’ve absolutely got to mention this—this state of things, I suggest we call ourselves—wait!—absentees. Have you been—been absent for long?
INEZ: […] Look here! What’s the point of play-acting, trying to throw dust in each other’s eyes? We’re all tarred with the same brush.
ESTELLE [indignantly]: How dare you!
INEZ: Yes, we are criminals—murderers—all three of us. We’re in hell, my pets; they never make mistakes, and people aren’t damned for nothing.
ESTELLE: Stop! For heaven’s sake—
INEZ: In hell! Damned souls—that’s us, all three!
INEZ: Wait! You’ll see how simple it is. Childishly simple. Obviously there aren’t any physical torments—you agree, don’t you? And yet we’re in hell. And no one else will come here. We’ll stay in this room together, the three of us, for ever and ever. . . . In short, there’s someone absent here, the official torturer.
GARCIN [sotto voce]: I’d noticed that.
INEZ: It’s obvious what they’re after—an economy of man power—or devil-power, if you prefer. The same idea as in the cafeteria, where customers serve themselves.
ESTELLE: What ever do you mean?
INEZ: I mean that each of us will act as torturer of the two others.
No, I shall never be your torturer. I wish neither of you any harm, and I’ve no concern with you. None at all. So the solution’s easy enough; each of us stays put in his or her corner and takes no notice of the others. You here, you here, and I there. Like soldiers at our posts. Also, we mustn’t speak. Not one word. That won’t be difficult; each of us has plenty of material for self-communings. I think I could stay ten thousand years with only my thoughts for company.
ESTELLE [opens her eyes and smiles]: I feel so queer. [She pats herself] Don’t you ever get taken that way? When I can’t see myself I begin to wonder if I really and truly exist. I pat myself just to make sure, but it doesn’t help much.
INEZ: You’re lucky. I’m always conscious of myself—in my mind. Painfully conscious.
ESTELLE: Ah yes, in your mind. But everything that goes on in one’s head is so vague, isn’t it? It makes one want to sleep. [She is silent for a while.] I’ve six big mirrors in my bedroom. There they are. I can see them. But they don’t see me. They’re reflecting the carpet, the settee, the window—but how empty it is, a glass in which I’m absent! When I talked to people I always made sure there was one near by in which I could see myself. I watched myself talking. And somehow it kept me alert, seeing myself as the others saw me. . . .
To forget about the others? How utterly absurd! I feel you there, in every pore. Your silence clamors in my ears. You can nail up your mouth, cut your tongue out—but you can’t prevent your being there. Can you stop your thoughts? I hear them ticking away like a clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and I’m certain you hear mine. It’s all very well skulking on your sofa, but you’re everywhere, and every sound comes to me soiled, because you’ve intercepted it on its way.
When I say I’m cruel, I mean I can’t get on without making people suffer. Like a live coal. A live coal in others’ hearts. When I’m alone I flicker out. For six months I flamed away in her heart, till there was nothing but a cinder. One night she got up and turned on the gas while I was asleep. Then she crept back into bed. So now you know.
INEZ: Well, Mr. Garcin, now you have us in the nude all right. Do you understand things any better for that?
GARCIN: I wonder. Yes, perhaps a trifle better. [Timidly] And now suppose we start trying to help each other.
INEZ: I don’t need help.
GARCIN: Inez, they’ve laid their snare damned cunningly—like a cobweb. If you make any movement, if you raise your hand to fan yourself, Estelle and I feel a little tug. Alone, none of us can save himself or herself; we’re linked together inextricably. So you can take your choice.
I want you to do me a service. No, don’t shrink away. I know it must seem strange to you, having someone asking you for help; you’re not used to that. But if you’ll make the effort, if you’ll only will it hard enough, I dare say we can really love each other. Look at it this way. A thousand of them are proclaiming I’m a coward; but what do numbers matter? If there’s someone, just one person, to say quite positively I did not run away, that I’m not the sort who runs away, that I’m brave and decent and the rest of it—well, that one person’s faith would save me. Will you have that faith in me? Then I shall love you and cherish you forever. Estelle—will you?
Open the door! Open, blast you! I’ll endure anything, your red-hot tongs and molten lead, your racks and prongs and garrotes—all your fiendish gadgets, everything that burns and flays and tears—I’ll put up with any torture you impose. Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.
GARCIN: Yes. You, anyhow, know what it means to be a coward.
INEZ: Yes, I know.
GARCIN: And you know what wickedness is, and shame, and fear. There were days when you peered into yourself, into the secret places of your heart, and what you saw there made you faint with horror. And then, next day, you didn’t know what to make of it, you couldn’t interpret the horror you had glimpsed the day before. Yes, you know what evil costs. And when you say I’m a coward, you know from experience what that means. Is that so?
INEZ: Yes.
GARCIN: So it’s you whom I have to convince; you are of my kind. Did you suppose I meant to go? No, I couldn’t leave you here, gloating over my defeat, with all those thoughts about me running in your head.
GARCIN: […] I aimed at being a real man. A tough, as they say. I staked everything on the same horse. . . . Can one possibly be a coward when one’s deliberately courted danger at every turn? And can one judge a life by a single action?
INEZ: Why not? For thirty years you dreamt you were a hero, and condoned a thousand petty lapses—because a hero, of course, can do no wrong. An easy method, obviously. Then a day came when you were up against it, the red light of real danger—and you took the train to Mexico.
GARCIN: I “dreamt,” you say. It was no dream. When I chose the hardest path, I made my choice deliberately. A man is what he wills himself to be.
INEZ: Prove it. Prove it was no dream. It’s what one does, and nothing else, that shows the stuff one’s made of.
So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!
INEZ [struggling and laughing]: But, you crazy creature, what do you think you’re doing? You know quite well I’m dead.
ESTELLE: Dead?
[She drops the knife. A pause, INEZ picks up the knife and jabs herself with it regretfully.]
INEZ: Dead! Dead! Dead! Knives, poison, ropes—all useless. It has happened already, do you understand? Once and for all. So here we are, forever. [Laughs.]
ESTELLE [with a peal of laughter]: Forever. My God, how funny! Forever.
GARCIN [looks at the two women, and joins in the laughter]: Forever, and ever, and ever.
[They slump onto their respective sofas. A long silence. Their laughter dies away and they gaze at each other.]
GARCIN: Well, well, let’s get on with it. . . .
