existentialism
In post–World War II New York, existentialism seemed sexy, bohemian, and antiacademic. It was an “action philosophy,” a survivor's answer to nihilistic despair, and it went well with berets and saxophones, Abstract Expressionists in cold water lofts, and heroes of novels searching for authenticity in a universe of chance. For a certain extraordinary period of time, everyone wanted to be existential. Not everyone knew what this meant exactly, but everyone wanted the distinction. Misused and overused, the very word existential began to function as a sort of highbrow condiment of choice, the squiggle of French mustard that spiced up the hot dog of a banal observation. It was irresistible. To Norman Mailer, existential signified the cool of John F. Kennedy at the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles in 1960—or maybe it meant a mutual climax achieved by anal intercourse. If you wore sunglasses in the subway and listened to Miles Davis, you were probably existential.
Such perhaps is the fate of certain avant-garde movements in art or thought. They arrive with the intent to move heaven and earth, and after they've gone, what they leave is their faded stylishness, and it's the same old hard earth, and heaven's as remote as ever.
— DL
