SARTRE: Alas, alas, the absurdity of it all, the absurdity of my existence!
SOCRATES: He is indeed in absurdity, but not because of his existence.
SARTRE: It is as I thought: my very being is a "being-for-itself", endlessly frustrated in its inescapable and unending attempt to do the impossible, to become a "being-in-itself". But there is "no exit" from this self-contradiction. My own noblest possession, freedom, is my doom: I am "condemned to freedom." I am doomed to failure. I am an eternal Boston Red Sox fan, under a cosmic curse.
SOCRATES: He attempts to drown himself and his misery in the ocean of his own verbiage. He is right: that attempt is doomed to failure.
SARTRE: But am I really in Hell? How can that be? "Hell is other people." But I see no other people here, either my torturers or my torturees.
SOCRATES: That is because your ugly eyeballs are ingrown, like toenails, jean-Paul. Look outside yourself for once! Look here! Look at me!
SARTRE: Oh, oh. I spoke too soon. Here comes my torturer. O cruel and cursed irony of the gods-my torturer is to be Socrates! Objective truth in a toga!
SOCRATES: It could be worse, Jean-Paul; it could have been Jesus.