I didn’t want to think any more about what would happen at dawn, at death. It made no sense. I only found words or emptiness. But as soon as I tried to think of anything else, I saw rifle barrels pointing at me. Perhaps I lived through my execution twenty times; once, I even thought it was for good: I must have slept a minute. They were dragging me to the wall, and I was struggling; I was asking for mercy. I woke up with a start and looked at the Belgian: I was afraid I might have cried out in my sleep. But he was stroking his mustache. He hadn’t noticed anything. If I had wanted to, I think I could have slept a while; I had been awake for 48 hours. I was at the end of my rope. But I didn’t want to lose two hours of life; they would come to wake me up at dawn. I would follow them, stupefied with sleep, and I would have croaked without so much as an “Oof!”; I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to die like an animal. I wanted to understand. Then I was afraid of having nightmares. I got up, walked back and forth, and, to change my ideas, I began to think about my past life. A crowd of memories came back to me pell-mell. There were good and bad ones–or at least I called them that before. There were faces and incidents. I saw the face of a little novillero who was gored in Valencia during the Feria, the face of one of my uncles, the face of Ramon Gris. I remembered my whole life: how I was out of work for three months in 1926, how I almost starved to death. I remembered a night I spent on a bench in Granada: I hadn’t eaten for three days. I was angry. I didn’t want to die. That made me smile. How madly I ran after happiness, after women, after liberty. Why? I wanted to free Spain. I admired Pi y Margall, joined the anarchist movement, and spoke in public meetings. I took everything as seriously as if I were immortal.

From “The Wall,” by Jean-Paul Sartre

French author Jean-Paul Sartre wrote this poignant snippet, stepping into the mind of an unfairly condemned man during the Spanish Civil War, “I didn’t want to think any more about what would happen at dawn, at death. It made no sense. I only found words or emptiness.”

The father of existentialism believes that humans are known by their actions, which also characterize their feelings. People are entirely responsible for their acts. And humans are condemned to be free, the same freedom that causes them anguish.

Sartre’s incursion into the human mind reminds me of Faulkner’s writings. Their characters contemplate their thoughts, which are spelled out before any action emerges. In “The Wall,” the short stories brim with profound ideas and engaging plots that transport the readers to the hidden corners of their souls.