During my first year on planet earth Jean Paul Sartre was a WWII prisoner of war. I remember reading of his period of enslavement during my freshman year at Phoenix College. He spoke of living in the trenches he helped to dig. It was not so much the agony of the loss of freedom or the pain or the hunger that riveted my attention. It was his complaint of a psychological effect of this kind of degradation. He lost, he said, a significant portion of his spoken vocabulary. I knew that he spoke the truth.