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鬲赖賵毓
丌賳鬲賵丕賳 乇賵讴丕賳鬲賳貙 賯賴乇賲丕賳 乇賲丕賳 鬲赖賵毓貙 鬲讴 賵 鬲賳賴丕 丿乇 卮賴乇 亘賵賵蹖賱 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�. 賴乇 趩賳丿 丿爻鬲鈥屫з嗀壁┴ж� 倬跇賵賴卮蹖 鬲丕乇蹖禺蹖 丕爻鬲貙 亘丕乇蹖 丿賱賲卮睾賵賱蹖賽 毓賲丿賴鈥屫ж� 芦賵噩賵丿禄 丕爻鬲貨 賵噩賵丿蹖 讴賴 丕賵 亘賴 丌賳 賲蹖鈥屫з嗀屫簇� 賵噩賵丿 丿乇 爻丕丨鬲賽 賲鬲丕賮蹖夭蹖讴蹖鈥屫ж� 賳蹖爻鬲 亘賱讴賴 賵噩賵丿 丿乇 爻丕丨鬲賽 丕蹖賳鈥屫囏з嗃� 賵 噩賱賵賴鈥屭� 丿乇 賲賵賯毓蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 丕噩鬲賲丕毓蹖賽 賮乇丿 丌丿賲蹖 賵 乇賵丕亘胤 賵蹖 亘丕 丕賮乇丕丿 丿蹖诏乇 噩丕賲毓賴 丕爻鬲. 丿賵 趩蹖夭 乇賵讴丕賳鬲賳 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屫⒇藏ж必�: 蹖讴蹖 丌賳讴賴 丕蹖賳 賵噩賵丿貙 丿乇 匕丕鬲 禺賵丿貙 賳丕賵丕噩亘 賵 賳丕毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丕爻鬲貨 賵 丿蹖诏乇 丌賳讴賴 倬蹖乇丕賲賵賳 丕賵 乇丕 噩賲丕毓鬲蹖 芦乇噩丕賱賴禄貙 亘丕 丕丨爻丕爻丕鬲蹖 丿乇賵睾蹖賳 賵 丕賳丿蹖卮賴鈥屬囏й� 讴賱蹖卮賴鈥屫й屫� 賮乇丕 诏乇賮鬲賴鈥屫з嗀�. 亘乇禺賵乇丿 亘丕 丕蹖賳 賵噩賵丿賽 賳丕毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丿乇 丕賳亘賵賴賽 噩夭卅蹖丕鬲 賲亘鬲匕賱卮貙 诏賵賳賴鈥屫й� 亘蹖夭丕乇蹖 賵 丿賱鈥屫⒇促堌ㄙ� 賵 芦鬲赖賵毓禄 丿乇 乇賵讴丕賳鬲賳 倬丿蹖丿 賲蹖鈥屫①堌必�. 乇賵讴丕賳鬲賳 亘賴 鬲噩乇亘賴 倬蹖 亘乇丿賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賲賵爻蹖賯蹖 丨丕賱鬲 芦鬲赖賵毓禄 乇丕 丿乇 丕賵 賲蹖鈥屫藏й屫� 賵 丕丨爻丕爻 亘爻胤 賵 禺賵卮蹖 亘賴 丕賵 賲蹖鈥屫囏�. 亘賮乇噩丕賲貙 倬爻 丕夭 爻蹖乇 賵 爻賱賵讴蹖 丿乇丿賳丕讴貙 丿乇 賲蹖鈥屰屫жㄘ� 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 乇賴蹖丿賳 丕夭 趩賳亘乇賴鈥屰� 賴爻鬲蹖賽 賲賴賲賱 賵 賳丕賲賵噩賴卮 亘丕蹖丿 丕乇夭卮鈥屬囏й屰� 亘乇丕蹖 禺賵丿卮 亘蹖丕賮乇蹖賳丿 賵 亘乇禺賵乇丿 賵噩賵丿蹖賽 賵蹖跇賴鈥屫й� 丕禺鬲蹖丕乇 讴賳丿. 丕賵 亘賴 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 丿賱 賲蹖鈥屬嗁囏� 賵 丿乇 丕蹖賳 毓乇氐賴貙 乇賲丕賳鈥屬嗁堐屫驰� 乇丕 亘賴 賵噩賴 禺丕氐 亘乇賲蹖鈥屭槽屬嗀�. 亘賴 丕蹖賳 爻丕賳貙 丕賲蹖丿賵丕乇 丕爻鬲 讴賴 賲毓賳丕蹖蹖 丕乇夭卮賲賳丿 亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖賽 亘蹖鈥屬呚官嗀й屬� 倬蹖卮蹖賳卮 亘丿賴丿.
乇賲丕賳 鬲赖賵毓貙 讴賴 丿乇 夭賲乇賴鈥屰� 丌孬丕乇 亘乇鬲乇賽 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇 丕爻鬲貙 倬蹖卮丕倬蹖卮 賴賲賴鈥屰� 丿乇賵賳賲丕蹖賴鈥屬囏й� 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 丕賵 乇丕 丿乇 亘乇 丿丕乇丿貙 賵 亘乇丕爻鬲蹖 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 倬乇丕乇噩鈥屫臂屬� 賳賵卮鬲賴鈥屬囏й� 丕丿亘蹖賽 乇賵夭诏丕乇 賲丕 丕爻鬲.
乇賲丕賳 鬲赖賵毓貙 讴賴 丿乇 夭賲乇賴鈥屰� 丌孬丕乇 亘乇鬲乇賽 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇 丕爻鬲貙 倬蹖卮丕倬蹖卮 賴賲賴鈥屰� 丿乇賵賳賲丕蹖賴鈥屬囏й� 賮賱爻賮賴鈥屰� 丕賵 乇丕 丿乇 亘乇 丿丕乇丿貙 賵 亘乇丕爻鬲蹖 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 倬乇丕乇噩鈥屫臂屬� 賳賵卮鬲賴鈥屬囏й� 丕丿亘蹖賽 乇賵夭诏丕乇 賲丕 丕爻鬲.
309 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1938
11.3k people are currently reading
225k people want to read
About the author
Jean-Paul Sartre
882听books12.3k听followersJean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre was a French philosopher, playwright, novelist, screenwriter, political activist, biographer, and literary critic, considered a leading figure in 20th-century French philosophy and Marxism. Sartre was one of the key figures in the philosophy of existentialism (and phenomenology). His work has influenced sociology, critical theory, post-colonial theory, and literary studies. He was awarded the 1964 Nobel Prize in Literature despite attempting to refuse it, saying that he always declined official honors and that "a writer should not allow himself to be turned into an institution."
Sartre held an open relationship with prominent feminist and fellow existentialist philosopher Simone de Beauvoir. Together, Sartre and de Beauvoir challenged the cultural and social assumptions and expectations of their upbringings, which they considered bourgeois, in both lifestyles and thought. The conflict between oppressive, spiritually destructive conformity (mauvaise foi, literally, 'bad faith') and an "authentic" way of "being" became the dominant theme of Sartre's early work, a theme embodied in his principal philosophical work Being and Nothingness (L'脢tre et le N茅ant, 1943). Sartre's introduction to his philosophy is his work Existentialism Is a Humanism (L'existentialisme est un humanisme, 1946), originally presented as a lecture.
Sartre held an open relationship with prominent feminist and fellow existentialist philosopher Simone de Beauvoir. Together, Sartre and de Beauvoir challenged the cultural and social assumptions and expectations of their upbringings, which they considered bourgeois, in both lifestyles and thought. The conflict between oppressive, spiritually destructive conformity (mauvaise foi, literally, 'bad faith') and an "authentic" way of "being" became the dominant theme of Sartre's early work, a theme embodied in his principal philosophical work Being and Nothingness (L'脢tre et le N茅ant, 1943). Sartre's introduction to his philosophy is his work Existentialism Is a Humanism (L'existentialisme est un humanisme, 1946), originally presented as a lecture.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 7,108 reviews
June 9, 2007
I put a longer review of this book / a journal entry that I wrote while I was reading it in "my writing" since it was too long for this page.
6.9.07
Nausea is not a good thing to have as the only thing that belongs to you, and even worse as the only thing that you belong to. It is sickening and dark and so terribly everyday that it gets inside you if you let it. Sartre writes beautifully and describes the physical world in such incredible detail, that if you are a reader, and even more if you are a writer, you want to keep going and never put it down, but if you are not emotionally stable enough to handle the fact that you might have done nothing but existing, don't read this book. If you are jaded by love don't read this book. If you almost lost your self in desire, don't read this book. Probably nobody should read this book. Then again, if you are like me and obsessed with words and the art that comes from darkness and the study of lonliness, then this is a work of genius. Its beautifully written, terrifying and intense. So go ahead, but at your own risk, and when you freak the hell out, don't tell anyone that it was me who recommended that you mess with Sartre.
6.9.07
Nausea is not a good thing to have as the only thing that belongs to you, and even worse as the only thing that you belong to. It is sickening and dark and so terribly everyday that it gets inside you if you let it. Sartre writes beautifully and describes the physical world in such incredible detail, that if you are a reader, and even more if you are a writer, you want to keep going and never put it down, but if you are not emotionally stable enough to handle the fact that you might have done nothing but existing, don't read this book. If you are jaded by love don't read this book. If you almost lost your self in desire, don't read this book. Probably nobody should read this book. Then again, if you are like me and obsessed with words and the art that comes from darkness and the study of lonliness, then this is a work of genius. Its beautifully written, terrifying and intense. So go ahead, but at your own risk, and when you freak the hell out, don't tell anyone that it was me who recommended that you mess with Sartre.
January 10, 2018
Roquentin, Meursault; Meursault, Roquentin. Now, go outside, grab a cup of coffee and have fun. I'll be here, sitting on the floor surrounded by cupcakes, ice cream and some twisted books, like an existentialist Bridget Jones, just contemplating my own ridiculous existence, thanks to you guys and your crude and insightful comments about life and its inevitable absurdity.
It is a tough read. Especially if you feel like a giant failure that never lived, but existed (to live, one of the rarest thing in the world, according to another great writer). I don't know about the life situation (and mental health condition) of you people out there, so I will certainly avoid the pressure of recommending this book. At the same time, I wish everyone could enjoy Sartre's beautiful writing. Yes, that is beautiful. And not too difficult to understand.
A couple of samples:
His words are lethal. And real. And that's a dangerous mix. He shares some thoughts that a lot of people can relate to, and, in most cases, those people won't know what to do with all that. I know I don't. Besides feeling sick, what can you do? Write a book? Eat more ice cream? Go skydiving? Plan a round-the-world trip? Quit your job and live in the country, eating raspberries? Oh, to face the absurdity of the world and to feel free because of that. To stop this never-ending search for meaning. To live. To live? A rare thing, indeed. (Oh dear, I sound like a self-help author.)
This was the first time I read Sartre. I've read the brilliant, the one and only, the master at describing the human condition, Dostoevsky; Camus, whose works I really like too; Kierkegaard, the pioneer. So, Sartre was a must-read. Those authors speak right to my soul (wherever that is), they get me (well, not Kierkegaard; at least, not that much. It's complicated. We're cool, though). It's a comforting feeling... being understood by some dead writers you'll never meet, obviously.
Yeah.
Okay. So, I loved this book. It's a new favorite of mine. And I need some Seinfeld reruns now.
Note to self: if you're ever going to re-read this, don't do it while listening to Enya, Craig Armstrong or Joy Division. It wasn't a nice feeling.
Feb 03, 14
* Also on
It is a tough read. Especially if you feel like a giant failure that never lived, but existed (to live, one of the rarest thing in the world, according to another great writer). I don't know about the life situation (and mental health condition) of you people out there, so I will certainly avoid the pressure of recommending this book. At the same time, I wish everyone could enjoy Sartre's beautiful writing. Yes, that is beautiful. And not too difficult to understand.
A couple of samples:
"Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and I was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now, it's blossoming."
"When you live alone you no longer know what it is to tell a story: the plausible disappears at the same time as the friends." (So simple and true.)
"If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke... and then it starts again: "Smoke . . . not to think . . . don't want to think . . . I think I don't want to think. I mustn't think that I don't want to think. Because that's still a thought." Will there never be an end to it? My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think . . . and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment - it's frightful - if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing."
"They did not want to exist, only they could not help themselves... Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance."
"You know, it's quite a job starting to love somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment, in the very beginning, when you have to jump across a precipice: if you think about it you don't do it. I know I'll never jump again." (NEVER)
His words are lethal. And real. And that's a dangerous mix. He shares some thoughts that a lot of people can relate to, and, in most cases, those people won't know what to do with all that. I know I don't. Besides feeling sick, what can you do? Write a book? Eat more ice cream? Go skydiving? Plan a round-the-world trip? Quit your job and live in the country, eating raspberries? Oh, to face the absurdity of the world and to feel free because of that. To stop this never-ending search for meaning. To live. To live? A rare thing, indeed. (Oh dear, I sound like a self-help author.)
This was the first time I read Sartre. I've read the brilliant, the one and only, the master at describing the human condition, Dostoevsky; Camus, whose works I really like too; Kierkegaard, the pioneer. So, Sartre was a must-read. Those authors speak right to my soul (wherever that is), they get me (well, not Kierkegaard; at least, not that much. It's complicated. We're cool, though). It's a comforting feeling... being understood by some dead writers you'll never meet, obviously.
Yeah.
Okay. So, I loved this book. It's a new favorite of mine. And I need some Seinfeld reruns now.
Note to self: if you're ever going to re-read this, don't do it while listening to Enya, Craig Armstrong or Joy Division. It wasn't a nice feeling.
Feb 03, 14
* Also on
February 28, 2024
The protagonist is a captive of loneliness and time.
For him there are no expectations and no changes in life鈥� The world passes him by鈥�
So the protagonist becomes nauseated with reality and his purposeless existence turns into a mental torment.
It comes as no surprise, however鈥� Even God couldn鈥檛 find out a reason for his existence: 鈥淎nd God said unto Moses, I am that I am,鈥� Exodus 3:14.
There is a paradox though: Why bother? If existence is meaningless then any philosophy is useless鈥�
This sun and blue sky were only a snare. This is the hundredth time I've let myself be caught. My memories are like coins in the devil's purse: when you open it you find only dead leaves.
For him there are no expectations and no changes in life鈥� The world passes him by鈥�
I can no longer distinguish present from future and yet it lasts, it happens little by little鈥�
So the protagonist becomes nauseated with reality and his purposeless existence turns into a mental torment.
I was just thinking that here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.
It comes as no surprise, however鈥� Even God couldn鈥檛 find out a reason for his existence: 鈥淎nd God said unto Moses, I am that I am,鈥� Exodus 3:14.
There is a paradox though: Why bother? If existence is meaningless then any philosophy is useless鈥�
March 11, 2025
SARTRE HAD IT RIGHT; BUT HE TOOK IT THE WRONG WAY.
His Nausea is an undisputed MASTERPIECE. But like me at my coming of age, he covered up its huge insights into his own failings behind a Facade of Self-Deception.
In this book, Sartre saw correctly that our world is Crazy Sick. But by sidestepping the problem of his own sickness through Reason, he made it worse for himself. And in the end he died of it.
At three I was crazy sick. My mom had spilled the beans on the men in her life! I suffered from a lot of Sick Headaches. The beginning of a seventy year Crazy Sickness.
That鈥檚 our problem, like in this book. If we don鈥檛 admit we鈥檙e all infected with this Crazy Sickness, we won鈥檛 seek - or find - REAL HELP. We鈥檒l be in Terminal Denial. We all need Help.
Sartre is so much like the child's toy in The Velveteen Rabbit. He doesn't want to be woken up to upright bourgeois adulthood! But 'once burned, Sartre, twice shy' - that's a precious gift for us suffeters. And Heaven awaits.
Don't get me wrong. I think nausea IS the only authentic reaction to modern neurotypical life. Hypocrisy sickens, of course - we adult Christians call it Sin - and Sartre is at least right in that. He refers to it as Facticity - the nauseated Dread that we who cling to virtue have of hypocrites.
But then, afterward, acceptance of all that is ESSENTIAL. Gotta bite the bullet. Smile politely and walk away! What else can we do?
I look back, healed, and my bipolar darkess is now a mere black Cloud amid the unknown things beyond my vision.
The other day, I decided to skim this novel again, after a yeat. A year had passed since I read it, and was thunderstruck. Why? Because it describes exactly the same experience I had 50 years ago! It鈥檚 an experience which has continued uninterrupted since that time - see my Kindle notes.
When I read this book in the 1980麓s I must have ignored its meaning.
It was Crazy Sickness. It鈥檚 everywhere. It鈥檚 the Barthian experience of the Alterity of God. Coming of age.
Sartre, ever the pessimistic atheist, thought it was the perception of the nothingness of middle-class values. And that鈥檚 too bad.
T.S. Eliot says some people have the experience and miss the meaning. Many are called but few are chosen.
So most folks, perhaps, prize this epiphany in their memory for the rest of their lives but are not fundamentally changed by it. Fred Buechner, though, said we have to SPEAK FROM OUR PAIN...
And to see results after such a satori, hard work must follow. And I wrestled with it, as I say, for 50 years. It was a long, cold, hard slog. Until, finally, peace and freedom ensued.
But Roquentin - Sartre - just endured its temporary internal pressure for a while, and then continued toward pure futility on his angry, counter cultural way. With great anguish.
So it鈥檚 a groundbreaking novel about the thunderous, dual irruption of being and facticity into a young man鈥檚 life, and for him everything is left in the air for the one who experiences it.
You know, it always happens in exactly this way.
For at that very moment when we try to seize the prize of Pure Being for ourselves we are necessarily forced to wrestle with a phony world of Being-for-Others - becoming ACTORS in a world we didn鈥檛 create.
The result is earthshaking for poor, nondescript Roquentin! He, like unlucky Prometheus, has suddenly and shamefacedly stolen Fire from the gods. And a pretty tawdry bunch of gods they鈥檝e turned out to be in his judgemental eyes.
But Roquentin grabbed the stick by the Wrong end. You just have to just KEEP GOING - and d*mn the Torpedoes!
Once you cross that invisible line in front of your unwary feet, the world falls on its stunned head, and proper orientation is anyone鈥檚 guess.
Where truth lies now is in unending aporia... a banal flux for Sartre, who had like Nietzsche, transvalued all traditional values, and suddenly:
All is changed, changed UTTERLY -
A Terrible Beauty is born!
A similar thing happened to me when I was nineteen. It was pivotal in my development and in my choices as an adult. I had to choose, and fast! It鈥檚 like George Santayana said: one day you wake up and realize 鈥渓ife鈥檚 not a spectacle - it鈥檚 a struggle.鈥�
But for me, it originated from God, I was certain of it. I submitted myself to His Absolute Alterity.
Once you鈥檙e on that road, there鈥檚 no going back. You can鈥檛 go home.
At least at first...
You know, Kafka once wrote a paragraph or two in his notebooks on the Prometheus parable, which describes the anguish that must follow such an experience for us all.
He says, that after incalculable aeons, Prometheus, his chains, and the rock he鈥檚 chained to in punishment for his sins, all merge into one continuous solid entity.
That merging is our return to Wholeness. And the ordinary sensory world - totally divested of extraneous pop gobbledygook - is now 鈥渕agnifique, totale et solitaire鈥�.
For if we endure the factitious encounter with Becoming patiently, and 鈥渋n good faith鈥�, one day we will merge with the Rock of Being in peace.
It is painfully and near-impossibly difficult.
But that is the Path.
And it is the Path to our Freedom and Wholeness.
One hundred years before Sartre penned this novel, a great Dane suffered the same cataclysmic bifurcation of his being - and, at first, the same unutterable anguish. For him it led to Wholeness too.
His name was S酶ren Kierkegaard.
But - crucially, and in stark contradistinction to Sartre - Kierkegaard found blessed release from it in the end. Sporadically at first, but you can see final freedom was there.
You can see his solution in his short masterwork Fear and Trembling...
Through a series of subtle and cuttingly double-edged variations on the old, old story of Abraham and Isaac - the original sacrifice - he lays the immovable foundation of Postmodernist Christian Faith.
Seen from almost every possible type of viewpoint out of a myriad range of possibilities.
And his ineluctable inner logic overpowered all his naysayers.
In fact Fear and Trembling paved the way for such modern cutting-edge Christians as Karl Barth and Hans Kung, both the brains trust and the conscientious soul of our new 21st century churches - institutions that seem to the untrained eye to be so out of touch.
Perhaps they鈥檙e only out of touch to the jaundiced eyes of Big Brother Media. Just try to look at it all a bit deeper! These thinkers are the substance under the New Christians鈥� (somewhat regrettable) glitter. All that glitters is not gold:
You鈥檝e gotta KNOW yourself as well as the World. By dissing the world you鈥檙e just digging a bigger hole.
And though Sartre somewhat hastily discarded Modern Faith out of hand, we don鈥檛 necessarily have to make the same despairing mistake, nor would we have to undergo any more desperate Sartrian anguish, if we chose to do otherwise...
and Believe.
For the choice we can make, right now, is for Real Inner Peace. The peace of a painfully and patiently stoic Promethean Rock...
Which must appear also to be in this ugly world, for so many of us, the Transcendence of a troubled Cross.
But that for us is The Only Way, the Only Truth and the Only Life.
And that way Works.
Roquentin鈥檚 doesn鈥檛.
We must Accept, and NOT Eternally Reject the Truth.
His Nausea is an undisputed MASTERPIECE. But like me at my coming of age, he covered up its huge insights into his own failings behind a Facade of Self-Deception.
In this book, Sartre saw correctly that our world is Crazy Sick. But by sidestepping the problem of his own sickness through Reason, he made it worse for himself. And in the end he died of it.
At three I was crazy sick. My mom had spilled the beans on the men in her life! I suffered from a lot of Sick Headaches. The beginning of a seventy year Crazy Sickness.
That鈥檚 our problem, like in this book. If we don鈥檛 admit we鈥檙e all infected with this Crazy Sickness, we won鈥檛 seek - or find - REAL HELP. We鈥檒l be in Terminal Denial. We all need Help.
Sartre is so much like the child's toy in The Velveteen Rabbit. He doesn't want to be woken up to upright bourgeois adulthood! But 'once burned, Sartre, twice shy' - that's a precious gift for us suffeters. And Heaven awaits.
Don't get me wrong. I think nausea IS the only authentic reaction to modern neurotypical life. Hypocrisy sickens, of course - we adult Christians call it Sin - and Sartre is at least right in that. He refers to it as Facticity - the nauseated Dread that we who cling to virtue have of hypocrites.
But then, afterward, acceptance of all that is ESSENTIAL. Gotta bite the bullet. Smile politely and walk away! What else can we do?
I look back, healed, and my bipolar darkess is now a mere black Cloud amid the unknown things beyond my vision.
The other day, I decided to skim this novel again, after a yeat. A year had passed since I read it, and was thunderstruck. Why? Because it describes exactly the same experience I had 50 years ago! It鈥檚 an experience which has continued uninterrupted since that time - see my Kindle notes.
When I read this book in the 1980麓s I must have ignored its meaning.
It was Crazy Sickness. It鈥檚 everywhere. It鈥檚 the Barthian experience of the Alterity of God. Coming of age.
Sartre, ever the pessimistic atheist, thought it was the perception of the nothingness of middle-class values. And that鈥檚 too bad.
T.S. Eliot says some people have the experience and miss the meaning. Many are called but few are chosen.
So most folks, perhaps, prize this epiphany in their memory for the rest of their lives but are not fundamentally changed by it. Fred Buechner, though, said we have to SPEAK FROM OUR PAIN...
And to see results after such a satori, hard work must follow. And I wrestled with it, as I say, for 50 years. It was a long, cold, hard slog. Until, finally, peace and freedom ensued.
But Roquentin - Sartre - just endured its temporary internal pressure for a while, and then continued toward pure futility on his angry, counter cultural way. With great anguish.
So it鈥檚 a groundbreaking novel about the thunderous, dual irruption of being and facticity into a young man鈥檚 life, and for him everything is left in the air for the one who experiences it.
You know, it always happens in exactly this way.
For at that very moment when we try to seize the prize of Pure Being for ourselves we are necessarily forced to wrestle with a phony world of Being-for-Others - becoming ACTORS in a world we didn鈥檛 create.
The result is earthshaking for poor, nondescript Roquentin! He, like unlucky Prometheus, has suddenly and shamefacedly stolen Fire from the gods. And a pretty tawdry bunch of gods they鈥檝e turned out to be in his judgemental eyes.
But Roquentin grabbed the stick by the Wrong end. You just have to just KEEP GOING - and d*mn the Torpedoes!
Once you cross that invisible line in front of your unwary feet, the world falls on its stunned head, and proper orientation is anyone鈥檚 guess.
Where truth lies now is in unending aporia... a banal flux for Sartre, who had like Nietzsche, transvalued all traditional values, and suddenly:
All is changed, changed UTTERLY -
A Terrible Beauty is born!
A similar thing happened to me when I was nineteen. It was pivotal in my development and in my choices as an adult. I had to choose, and fast! It鈥檚 like George Santayana said: one day you wake up and realize 鈥渓ife鈥檚 not a spectacle - it鈥檚 a struggle.鈥�
But for me, it originated from God, I was certain of it. I submitted myself to His Absolute Alterity.
Once you鈥檙e on that road, there鈥檚 no going back. You can鈥檛 go home.
At least at first...
You know, Kafka once wrote a paragraph or two in his notebooks on the Prometheus parable, which describes the anguish that must follow such an experience for us all.
He says, that after incalculable aeons, Prometheus, his chains, and the rock he鈥檚 chained to in punishment for his sins, all merge into one continuous solid entity.
That merging is our return to Wholeness. And the ordinary sensory world - totally divested of extraneous pop gobbledygook - is now 鈥渕agnifique, totale et solitaire鈥�.
For if we endure the factitious encounter with Becoming patiently, and 鈥渋n good faith鈥�, one day we will merge with the Rock of Being in peace.
It is painfully and near-impossibly difficult.
But that is the Path.
And it is the Path to our Freedom and Wholeness.
One hundred years before Sartre penned this novel, a great Dane suffered the same cataclysmic bifurcation of his being - and, at first, the same unutterable anguish. For him it led to Wholeness too.
His name was S酶ren Kierkegaard.
But - crucially, and in stark contradistinction to Sartre - Kierkegaard found blessed release from it in the end. Sporadically at first, but you can see final freedom was there.
You can see his solution in his short masterwork Fear and Trembling...
Through a series of subtle and cuttingly double-edged variations on the old, old story of Abraham and Isaac - the original sacrifice - he lays the immovable foundation of Postmodernist Christian Faith.
Seen from almost every possible type of viewpoint out of a myriad range of possibilities.
And his ineluctable inner logic overpowered all his naysayers.
In fact Fear and Trembling paved the way for such modern cutting-edge Christians as Karl Barth and Hans Kung, both the brains trust and the conscientious soul of our new 21st century churches - institutions that seem to the untrained eye to be so out of touch.
Perhaps they鈥檙e only out of touch to the jaundiced eyes of Big Brother Media. Just try to look at it all a bit deeper! These thinkers are the substance under the New Christians鈥� (somewhat regrettable) glitter. All that glitters is not gold:
You鈥檝e gotta KNOW yourself as well as the World. By dissing the world you鈥檙e just digging a bigger hole.
And though Sartre somewhat hastily discarded Modern Faith out of hand, we don鈥檛 necessarily have to make the same despairing mistake, nor would we have to undergo any more desperate Sartrian anguish, if we chose to do otherwise...
and Believe.
For the choice we can make, right now, is for Real Inner Peace. The peace of a painfully and patiently stoic Promethean Rock...
Which must appear also to be in this ugly world, for so many of us, the Transcendence of a troubled Cross.
But that for us is The Only Way, the Only Truth and the Only Life.
And that way Works.
Roquentin鈥檚 doesn鈥檛.
We must Accept, and NOT Eternally Reject the Truth.
August 12, 2021
(Book 602 from 1001 books) - La Naus茅e = Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre
Nausea is a philosophical novel by the existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, published in 1938. It is Sartre's first novel and, in his opinion, one of his best works.
Antoine Roquentin protagonist of the novel, is a former adventurer who has been living in Bouville for three years. Antoine does not keep in touch with family, and has no friends.
He is a loner at heart and often likes to listen to other people's conversations賵 and examine their actions. He settles in the fictional French seaport town of Bouville to finish his research on the life of an 18th-century political figure.
But during the winter of 1932 a "sweetish sickness," as he calls nausea, increasingly impinges on almost everything he does or enjoys: his research project, the company of an autodidact who is reading all the books, in the local library alphabetically, a physical relationship with a caf茅 owner named Fran莽oise, his memories of Anny, an English girl he once loved, even his own hands and the beauty of nature.
Even though he at times admits to trying to find some sort of solace in the presence of others, he also exhibits signs of boredom賵 and lack of interest when interacting with people.
His relationship with Fran莽oise is mostly hygienic in nature, for the two hardly exchange words and, when invited by the Self-Taught Man to accompany him for lunch, he agrees only to write in his diary later that: "I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself."
He can afford not to work, but spends a lot of his time writing a book about a French politician of the eighteenth century.
Antoine does not think highly of himself: "The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so."
When he starts suffering from the Nausea he feels the need to talk to Anny, but when he finally does, it makes no difference to his condition.
He eventually starts to think he does not even exist: "My existence was beginning to cause me some concern. Was I a mere figment of the imagination?". ...
毓賳賵丕賳賴丕蹖 趩丕倬 卮丿賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳: 芦鬲赖賵毓禄貨 芦丕爻鬲賮乇丕睾禄貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 (丕賲蹖乇讴亘蹖乇貙 賳蹖賱賵賮乇貙 賯丕卅賲 賲賯丕賲貙 賮乇禺蹖) 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 賮乇丕賳爻賴貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 爻丕賱 1987賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
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賳賯賱 丕夭 賲鬲賳: (讴爻蹖 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賯爻賲鬲 亘賵賱賵丕乇 芦賳賵丌乇禄 爻讴賵賳鬲 賳丿丕乇丿貨 丌亘 賵 賴賵丕蹖卮 丌賳賯丿乇 賲夭禺乇賮 賵 夭賲蹖賳卮 丌賳賯丿乇 亘丕蹖乇 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 丕賲讴丕賳 賳丿丕乇丿貙 丿乇 丌賳鈥屫� 夭賳丿诏蹖 倬丕 亘诏蹖乇丿 賵 鬲乇賯蹖 讴賳丿貨 爻賴 讴丕乇诏丕賴 趩賵亘鈥屫ㄘ臂� 亘乇丕丿乇丕賳 芦爻賱蹖禄 亘丕 鬲賲丕賲 丿乇賴丕 賵 倬賳噩乇賴鈥屬囏ж簇з嗀� 讴賴 賲卮乇賮 亘賴 禺蹖丕亘丕賳 丌乇丕賲 芦跇丕賳 亘乇鬲 讴賵乇賵丌禄 賴爻鬲賳丿貙 賵 丌賳鈥� 乇丕 倬乇 丕夭 爻乇 賵 氐丿丕蹖 禺乇禺乇 賵 鬲賯鈥屫� 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 乇賵 亘賴 睾乇亘 亘丕夭 賲蹖鈥屫促堎嗀�.)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 11/06/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 20/04/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
Nausea is a philosophical novel by the existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, published in 1938. It is Sartre's first novel and, in his opinion, one of his best works.
Antoine Roquentin protagonist of the novel, is a former adventurer who has been living in Bouville for three years. Antoine does not keep in touch with family, and has no friends.
He is a loner at heart and often likes to listen to other people's conversations賵 and examine their actions. He settles in the fictional French seaport town of Bouville to finish his research on the life of an 18th-century political figure.
But during the winter of 1932 a "sweetish sickness," as he calls nausea, increasingly impinges on almost everything he does or enjoys: his research project, the company of an autodidact who is reading all the books, in the local library alphabetically, a physical relationship with a caf茅 owner named Fran莽oise, his memories of Anny, an English girl he once loved, even his own hands and the beauty of nature.
Even though he at times admits to trying to find some sort of solace in the presence of others, he also exhibits signs of boredom賵 and lack of interest when interacting with people.
His relationship with Fran莽oise is mostly hygienic in nature, for the two hardly exchange words and, when invited by the Self-Taught Man to accompany him for lunch, he agrees only to write in his diary later that: "I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself."
He can afford not to work, but spends a lot of his time writing a book about a French politician of the eighteenth century.
Antoine does not think highly of himself: "The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so."
When he starts suffering from the Nausea he feels the need to talk to Anny, but when he finally does, it makes no difference to his condition.
He eventually starts to think he does not even exist: "My existence was beginning to cause me some concern. Was I a mere figment of the imagination?". ...
毓賳賵丕賳賴丕蹖 趩丕倬 卮丿賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳: 芦鬲赖賵毓禄貨 芦丕爻鬲賮乇丕睾禄貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 (丕賲蹖乇讴亘蹖乇貙 賳蹖賱賵賮乇貙 賯丕卅賲 賲賯丕賲貙 賮乇禺蹖) 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 賮乇丕賳爻賴貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 爻丕賱 1987賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 鬲赖賵毓貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 丕賲蹖乇噩賱丕賱 丕賱丿蹖賳 丕毓賱賲貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 丕賲蹖乇讴亘蹖乇貙 1355貙 匕乇 271氐貨 趩丕倬 丿蹖诏乇貙 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 賳蹖賱賵賮乇貙 1365貙 丿乇 310氐貙 趩丕倬 爻賵賲貙 1371貨 趩賴丕乇賲 1376貨 趩丕倬 倬丕賳夭丿賴賲貙 1396貨 卮丕賳夭丿賴賲 1397貨 賲賵囟賵毓 丕丿亘蹖丕鬲 賮乇丕賳爻賴 - 爻丿賴 20賲
毓賳賵丕賳: 鬲赖賵毓貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 丨爻蹖賳 爻賱蹖賲丕賳蹖 賳跇丕丿貨 賳卮乇 趩卮賲賴貙 1396貙 丿乇 251 氐貨 卮丕亘讴 9786002298881貨
毓賳賵丕賳: 丕爻鬲賮乇丕睾貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 毓賱蹖 氐丿賵賯蹖貨 賳卮乇 賮乇禺蹖貨 爻丕賱 1353貙 丿乇 211氐貨
毓賳賵丕賳: 鬲赖賵毓貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 讴蹖賵賲乇孬 倬丕乇爻丕蹖貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 賳卮乇 毓賱賲貙 1399貨 丿乇 322氐貨 卮丕亘讴: 9786222461898貨
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毓賳賵丕賳: 鬲赖賵毓貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 賲賴乇丌賮乇蹖丿 亘蹖诏丿賱蹖 禺賲爻賴貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 賳诏丕乇爻鬲丕賳 讴鬲丕亘貙 1388貙 丿乇 358氐貨 卮丕亘讴 9786005541373貨
毓賳賵丕賳: 鬲赖賵毓貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 賲丨賲丿乇囟丕 倬丕爻丕蹖丕乇貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 倬丕乇爻賴貙 1390貨 丿乇 312氐貨 卮丕亘讴 9786005733846貨
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毓賳賵丕賳: 鬲赖賵毓貨 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴: 跇丕賳 倬賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貨 賲鬲乇噩賲:亘賴賲賳 禺爻乇賵蹖貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 賳爻賱 賳賵丕賳丿蹖卮貨 1388貙 丿乇 372氐貨 卮丕亘讴 9789644128721貨
毓賳賵丕賳: 丕爻鬲賮乇丕睾貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 丕丨賲丿 亘賴乇賵夭貨 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 亘賳诏丕賴 賲胤亘賵毓丕鬲 賯丕卅賲 賲賯丕賲貙 爻丕賱 1345貙 丿乇 260氐貨
鬲赖賵毓 (丕爻鬲賮乇丕睾) 乇丕噩毓 亘賴 賲乇丿蹖 爻蹖 爻丕賱賴貙 亘賴 賳丕賲 芦丌賳鬲賵丕賳 乇賵讴丕賳鬲賳禄貙 賲賵乇禺 丕賮爻乇丿賴貙 賵 诏賵卮賴鈥� 诏蹖乇蹖 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 亘丕賵乇 賲蹖鈥屫必池� 讴賴 丕卮蹖丕亍 亘蹖鈥屫з嗀� 賵 賲賵賯毓蹖鬲鈥屬囏й� 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳貙 亘乇 鬲毓乇蹖賮 丕賵 丕夭 禺賵丿貙 賵 丌夭丕丿蹖 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 賵 乇賵丨蹖 丕卮 賱胤賲賴 賲蹖鈥屫操嗁嗀� 賵 丕蹖賳 賳丕鬲賵丕賳蹖貙 丕賵 乇丕 丿趩丕乇 芦鬲赖賵毓禄 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 芦丌賳鬲賵丕賳 乇賵讴丕賳鬲賳禄 卮禺氐蹖鬲 丕氐賱蹖 乇賲丕賳貙 蹖讴 賲丕噩乇丕噩賵蹖 賯丿蹖賲蹖 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 亘賴 賲丿鬲 爻賴 爻丕賱 丿乇 芦亘賵蹖賱禄 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賴貙 芦丌賳鬲賵丕賳禄 乇丕亘胤賴鈥� 丕蹖 亘丕 禺丕賳賵丕丿賴鈥� 丕卮 亘乇賯乇丕乇 賳賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 賵 賴蹖趩 丿賵爻鬲蹖 賳蹖夭 賳丿丕乇丿貙 丕賵 蹖讴 丕賳夭賵丕胤賱亘 丕爻鬲 賵 丕睾賱亘 丿賵爻鬲 丿丕乇丿 亘賴 賲讴丕賱賲丕鬲 丿蹖诏乇 丕賮乇丕丿 诏賵卮 丿賴丿貙 賵 丕賯丿丕賲丕鬲 丌賳賴丕 乇丕 亘乇乇爻蹖 讴賳丿貨 芦丌賳鬲賵丕賳禄 賴賲趩賳蹖賳 賳卮丕賳賴鈥� 賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 禺爻鬲诏蹖 賵 賮乇爻賵丿诏蹖 乇丕 亘賴 賳賲丕蹖卮 賲蹖鈥屭柏ж必� 賵 亘丕 毓丿賲 毓賱丕賯賴 亘賴 鬲毓丕賲賱 亘丕 賲乇丿賲 賲賵丕噩賴 丕爻鬲貨 乇丕亘胤賴 蹖 丕賵 亘丕 芦賮乇丕賳爻賵丕禄 毓賲丿鬲丕賸 胤亘蹖毓蹖 丕爻鬲貨 亘乇丕蹖 丕賵 鬲亘丕丿賱 讴賱賲丕鬲 丿卮賵丕乇 丕爻鬲貨 丕賲丕 丕賵 亘爻蹖丕乇蹖 丕夭 賵賯鬲卮 乇丕 氐乇賮 賳賵卮鬲賳 蹖讴 讴鬲丕亘 丿乇亘丕乇賴 蹖 蹖讴 爻蹖丕爻鬲賲丿丕乇 芦賮乇丕賳爻賵蹖禄 丿乇 爻丿賴 蹖 賴噩丿賴 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀�
賳賯賱 丕夭 賲鬲賳: (讴爻蹖 丿乇 丕蹖賳 賯爻賲鬲 亘賵賱賵丕乇 芦賳賵丌乇禄 爻讴賵賳鬲 賳丿丕乇丿貨 丌亘 賵 賴賵丕蹖卮 丌賳賯丿乇 賲夭禺乇賮 賵 夭賲蹖賳卮 丌賳賯丿乇 亘丕蹖乇 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 丕賲讴丕賳 賳丿丕乇丿貙 丿乇 丌賳鈥屫� 夭賳丿诏蹖 倬丕 亘诏蹖乇丿 賵 鬲乇賯蹖 讴賳丿貨 爻賴 讴丕乇诏丕賴 趩賵亘鈥屫ㄘ臂� 亘乇丕丿乇丕賳 芦爻賱蹖禄 亘丕 鬲賲丕賲 丿乇賴丕 賵 倬賳噩乇賴鈥屬囏ж簇з嗀� 讴賴 賲卮乇賮 亘賴 禺蹖丕亘丕賳 丌乇丕賲 芦跇丕賳 亘乇鬲 讴賵乇賵丌禄 賴爻鬲賳丿貙 賵 丌賳鈥� 乇丕 倬乇 丕夭 爻乇 賵 氐丿丕蹖 禺乇禺乇 賵 鬲賯鈥屫� 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁嗀� 乇賵 亘賴 睾乇亘 亘丕夭 賲蹖鈥屫促堎嗀�.)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 11/06/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 20/04/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
January 7, 2023
SOME OF THESE DAYS
Disegno di Alberto Giacometti.
Libro letto nel momento giusto, quando il termine e la categoria 鈥榚sistenzialismo鈥� me li sarei potuti scrivere sulle t-shirt, o in fronte.
Leggo che l'editore Gallimard chiese a Sartre di cambiare il titolo, da 鈥淢elancholia鈥� a 鈥淟a nausea鈥�, giudicando il primo poco attraente per i lettori. Una bella lotta.
Altrettanto buffo 猫 che Sartre abbia sentito il bisogno di un impianto tanto classico. Perch茅, anche se lo fa dichiarare ai suoi editori, l鈥檈spediente che avvia il romanzo 猫 per l鈥檃ppunto un super classico: manoscritto ritrovato, diario di un certo Roquentin, che s鈥櫭� ritirato a vivere in provincia per fare ricerche su un tizio del secolo XVIII, tale marchese di Rollebon.
Alberto Giacometti: Annette.
Oltre Roquentin, che parla in prima persona, s鈥檌ncontra qualche altro personaggio degno di nota, pochi a dir il vero. Su tutti, l鈥橝utodidatta che Roquentin incrocia in biblioteca: l鈥橝utodidatta 猫 intento a leggere, e possibilmente, imparare lo scibile umano seguendo l鈥檕rdine alfabetico. Bell鈥檌mpresa.
Appare anche un compositore musicale ebreo e una cantante di colore, Some of These Days 猫 la sua canzone.
Sotto forma di diario, racconti, soprattutto pensieri e riflessioni, sul senso della vita, che senso non ha, sulla solitudine, sull鈥檃ngoscia. Mal di vivere.
La Nausea non 猫 in me: io la sento laggi霉 sul muro, sulle bretelle, dappertutto attorno a me. Fa tutt鈥檜no col caff猫, son io che sono in essa.
Lungo la strada ce n鈥櫭� per tutto e tutti, dio, ovviamente, borghesi, benpensanti, conformisti, la stupidit脿 umana鈥�
Alberto Giacometti: Studio per un ritratto di James Lord.
Inizia riportando anche la data, la prima 猫 Luned矛, 29 gennaio 1932. Ma presto rimangono solo i giorni della settimana, a rimarcare l鈥檌nutilit脿 del tutto, l鈥檌nconsistenza dell鈥檈sistere.
A un certo punto si legge, semplicemente:
惭补谤迟别诲矛
Niente. Esistito.
L鈥檌nferno, sono gli altri.
Disegno di Alberto Giacometti.
Libro letto nel momento giusto, quando il termine e la categoria 鈥榚sistenzialismo鈥� me li sarei potuti scrivere sulle t-shirt, o in fronte.
Leggo che l'editore Gallimard chiese a Sartre di cambiare il titolo, da 鈥淢elancholia鈥� a 鈥淟a nausea鈥�, giudicando il primo poco attraente per i lettori. Una bella lotta.
Altrettanto buffo 猫 che Sartre abbia sentito il bisogno di un impianto tanto classico. Perch茅, anche se lo fa dichiarare ai suoi editori, l鈥檈spediente che avvia il romanzo 猫 per l鈥檃ppunto un super classico: manoscritto ritrovato, diario di un certo Roquentin, che s鈥櫭� ritirato a vivere in provincia per fare ricerche su un tizio del secolo XVIII, tale marchese di Rollebon.
Alberto Giacometti: Annette.
Oltre Roquentin, che parla in prima persona, s鈥檌ncontra qualche altro personaggio degno di nota, pochi a dir il vero. Su tutti, l鈥橝utodidatta che Roquentin incrocia in biblioteca: l鈥橝utodidatta 猫 intento a leggere, e possibilmente, imparare lo scibile umano seguendo l鈥檕rdine alfabetico. Bell鈥檌mpresa.
Appare anche un compositore musicale ebreo e una cantante di colore, Some of These Days 猫 la sua canzone.
Sotto forma di diario, racconti, soprattutto pensieri e riflessioni, sul senso della vita, che senso non ha, sulla solitudine, sull鈥檃ngoscia. Mal di vivere.
La Nausea non 猫 in me: io la sento laggi霉 sul muro, sulle bretelle, dappertutto attorno a me. Fa tutt鈥檜no col caff猫, son io che sono in essa.
Lungo la strada ce n鈥櫭� per tutto e tutti, dio, ovviamente, borghesi, benpensanti, conformisti, la stupidit脿 umana鈥�
Alberto Giacometti: Studio per un ritratto di James Lord.
Inizia riportando anche la data, la prima 猫 Luned矛, 29 gennaio 1932. Ma presto rimangono solo i giorni della settimana, a rimarcare l鈥檌nutilit脿 del tutto, l鈥檌nconsistenza dell鈥檈sistere.
A un certo punto si legge, semplicemente:
惭补谤迟别诲矛
Niente. Esistito.
L鈥檌nferno, sono gli altri.
November 13, 2020
We were talking about novels that begin really badly then change gear and turn into great reads. One of my favorites from this year did just that - Old Goriot. This is another. After 100 pages I was thinking I鈥檇 had enough, and as usual I wrote a mean-minded parody.
THE MEAN-MINDED PARODY
Monday 29th January 1932. I鈥檓 feeling a bit funny.
Tuesday. You know, I鈥檓 a bit of a loner. I forgot how to open my mouth. Also, I鈥檓 writing this colossally dull history book. It鈥檚 just possible I am going doolally. I don鈥檛 like things and I have noticed things don鈥檛 like me. Yeah, things. Damn those things! What things? Oh you know, spoons, eyebrows, planets.
Wednesday. I noticed something horrible in the mirror. After an hour of staring I formed a theory that it was me. My eyes looked like baked beans and my mouth like a forgotten sock that gets left in the washing machine.
Thursday. I went to a caf茅 and I had a funny turn. I decided to write a book called Funny Turn.
Friday. I look out of my window and see two old women fighting in the street. They have knives and bicycle chains. They are in their seventies. If I opened the window a little further and leaned over some more I would topple into the street. Why not?
Sunday. Let鈥檚 not talk about Saturday.
Today I had an itch in my right ear and I didn鈥檛 scratch it for hours. I was so irritated.
Monday. I realised every single person makes me sick so I am going to change the title of my book to You All Make Me Sick.
But after page 100 Sartre suddenly found the real voice of this novel, and it was a revelation. Surprise! He can be brilliant. After all that uninteresting bellyaching I was not expecting a series of fulminations of such terminal loathing that Philip Roth, rantmeister nonpareil, could only goggle at in wonder.
A RED PILL/BLUE PILL THING
And suddenly, all at once, the veil is torn away, I have understood, I have 蝉别别苍鈥�
So this guy has a series of revelations all about the nature of reality and you guessed it, he doesn鈥檛 care much for what he now perceives to be the truth. Still he pities the sheeple who have not taken the red pill and still have mortgages and husbands and eyebrows.
They have dragged out their lives in stupor and somnolence, they have married in a hurry, out of impatience, and they have children at random. 鈥ow and then, caught in a current, they have struggled without understanding what was happening to them. Everything that has happened around them has begun and ended out of their sight.
Once you have realised what existence is everything looks like caramel and/or melted cheese and you have a centipede instead of a tongue. Horror movie images flicker on and off through the rest of the book, parts of which seem like William Burroughs and even Hunter Thompson.
Things have broken free from their names. There they are, grotesque, stubborn, gigantic
But still he finds a very tiny bit of compassion for things and people -
They did not want to exist, only they could not help it; that was the point.
THE BEST JOKE IN NAUSEA
Antoine Roquentin, our depressed narrator, meets up with his former girlfriend Anny. He hasn鈥檛 seen her for four years. She says she needed him in her life. He says 鈥淣eed me?... Well you鈥檝e kept very quiet about it , I must say.鈥� She says 鈥淣aturally I don鈥檛 need to see you, if that鈥檚 what you mean鈥ou鈥檙e like that metre of platinum they keep somewhere in Paris. I don鈥檛 think anybody鈥檚 ever wanted to see it.鈥�
AN UNSETTLING READING EXPERIENCE
Deadly dull for 15 pages then shockingly brilliant, then tiresome, then magical, of on off on offonoffon, like that. Also, zero plot, but you kind of guessed that anyway.
They call this a philosophical novel but that鈥檚 if you call a case history of a depressed guy thinking he鈥檚 seen the Ultimate Horror of the True Nature of Reality philosophy. If you do you might say the same thing about any album by Megadeth. I mean. It鈥檚 not remotely coherent. But it is visceral and jolting and if you don鈥檛 mind a large dose of tedium amidst Sartre鈥檚 red pill hell then welcome aboard.
LABORATORY ANALYSIS OF NAUSEA BY J-P SARTRE
this guy sitting in a cafe bitching about the other customers................................77%
this guy moaning about the history book he's writing...........................................12%
this guy having visions and insights about the horror, the horror........................19.7%
Pleasant memories of a happy childhood..................................................................0%
Exciting chase sequences..............................................0%
Paragraphs about squishy things and other stuff you don't want to see clearly.................................7.9%
3.5 stars.
THE MEAN-MINDED PARODY
Monday 29th January 1932. I鈥檓 feeling a bit funny.
Tuesday. You know, I鈥檓 a bit of a loner. I forgot how to open my mouth. Also, I鈥檓 writing this colossally dull history book. It鈥檚 just possible I am going doolally. I don鈥檛 like things and I have noticed things don鈥檛 like me. Yeah, things. Damn those things! What things? Oh you know, spoons, eyebrows, planets.
Wednesday. I noticed something horrible in the mirror. After an hour of staring I formed a theory that it was me. My eyes looked like baked beans and my mouth like a forgotten sock that gets left in the washing machine.
Thursday. I went to a caf茅 and I had a funny turn. I decided to write a book called Funny Turn.
Friday. I look out of my window and see two old women fighting in the street. They have knives and bicycle chains. They are in their seventies. If I opened the window a little further and leaned over some more I would topple into the street. Why not?
Sunday. Let鈥檚 not talk about Saturday.
Today I had an itch in my right ear and I didn鈥檛 scratch it for hours. I was so irritated.
Monday. I realised every single person makes me sick so I am going to change the title of my book to You All Make Me Sick.
But after page 100 Sartre suddenly found the real voice of this novel, and it was a revelation. Surprise! He can be brilliant. After all that uninteresting bellyaching I was not expecting a series of fulminations of such terminal loathing that Philip Roth, rantmeister nonpareil, could only goggle at in wonder.
A RED PILL/BLUE PILL THING
And suddenly, all at once, the veil is torn away, I have understood, I have 蝉别别苍鈥�
So this guy has a series of revelations all about the nature of reality and you guessed it, he doesn鈥檛 care much for what he now perceives to be the truth. Still he pities the sheeple who have not taken the red pill and still have mortgages and husbands and eyebrows.
They have dragged out their lives in stupor and somnolence, they have married in a hurry, out of impatience, and they have children at random. 鈥ow and then, caught in a current, they have struggled without understanding what was happening to them. Everything that has happened around them has begun and ended out of their sight.
Once you have realised what existence is everything looks like caramel and/or melted cheese and you have a centipede instead of a tongue. Horror movie images flicker on and off through the rest of the book, parts of which seem like William Burroughs and even Hunter Thompson.
Things have broken free from their names. There they are, grotesque, stubborn, gigantic
But still he finds a very tiny bit of compassion for things and people -
They did not want to exist, only they could not help it; that was the point.
THE BEST JOKE IN NAUSEA
Antoine Roquentin, our depressed narrator, meets up with his former girlfriend Anny. He hasn鈥檛 seen her for four years. She says she needed him in her life. He says 鈥淣eed me?... Well you鈥檝e kept very quiet about it , I must say.鈥� She says 鈥淣aturally I don鈥檛 need to see you, if that鈥檚 what you mean鈥ou鈥檙e like that metre of platinum they keep somewhere in Paris. I don鈥檛 think anybody鈥檚 ever wanted to see it.鈥�
AN UNSETTLING READING EXPERIENCE
Deadly dull for 15 pages then shockingly brilliant, then tiresome, then magical, of on off on offonoffon, like that. Also, zero plot, but you kind of guessed that anyway.
They call this a philosophical novel but that鈥檚 if you call a case history of a depressed guy thinking he鈥檚 seen the Ultimate Horror of the True Nature of Reality philosophy. If you do you might say the same thing about any album by Megadeth. I mean. It鈥檚 not remotely coherent. But it is visceral and jolting and if you don鈥檛 mind a large dose of tedium amidst Sartre鈥檚 red pill hell then welcome aboard.
LABORATORY ANALYSIS OF NAUSEA BY J-P SARTRE
this guy sitting in a cafe bitching about the other customers................................77%
this guy moaning about the history book he's writing...........................................12%
this guy having visions and insights about the horror, the horror........................19.7%
Pleasant memories of a happy childhood..................................................................0%
Exciting chase sequences..............................................0%
Paragraphs about squishy things and other stuff you don't want to see clearly.................................7.9%
3.5 stars.
June 17, 2024
Sartrian novels are a bit out of fashion, but La Naus茅e remains one of the best stories of the twentieth century. He accompanied me at one time, and I never stopped seeing him. When you like Sartre's philosophy, it allows you to identify with a character who observes the world and is disgusted by it, so vain does it seem to him. He tries to make sense of his existence and understand why he lives, but he comes to a sad and hopeless conclusion. It is not easy to read; it puts off and gives the blues, but it allows us to put words on the pain of living that we can sometimes feel. The important thing is to get out.
Read
September 18, 2022
Originally published in 1938, Jean-Paul Sartre's short existential novel La Naus茅e can be read on many levels - to list several: philosophical, psychological, social and political. Going back to my college days, my reading of this work has always been decidedly personal. Thus my observations below and, at points, my own experiences relating to certain passages I have found to contain great power.
"Then the Nausea sized me, I dropped to a seat. I no longer knew where I was; I saw the colors spin slowly around me, I wanted to vomit."
The entire novel is written in the form of a diary of one Antoine Roquentin, an unemployed historian living in the small fictional city of Bouville on the northern French coast in 1932. Roquentin's Nausea (his capital) isn't occasional or a revulsion to anything specific, the smell of a certain room or being in the presence of a particular group of people; no, his Nausea is all pervasive: life in all of its various manifestations nauseates him.
I recall a time back one muggy afternoon, age eighteen, sitting in a locker room, waiting to take the field for a practice session with the other players on the football team, forced to listen to a coach鈥檚 ravings, I suddenly felt repulsed and disgusted by everything and everybody around me. Like Roquentin, I wanted to vomit. When the other players ran out to take the field, I remained seated. Then, calmly walking over to the equipment room, I turned in my uniform and pads. When I walked away I felt as if I shed an ugly layer of skin, a repugnant old self. I felt clearheaded and refreshed; I had a vivid sense of instant transformation.
I can imagine Roquentin in a somewhat similar plight but, unfortunately, there's no escape. He's the prisoner of an impossible situation: all of life, every bit of it, gives him his Nausea.
"Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable monotonous addition."
This was my experience when in my 20s and 30s working in a suffocating insurance office. It didn't matter what time the clock said on the wall - all the hours were a dull, humdrum grey. When I left the office: a great sense of freedom and release.
For Roquentin there is no release - all of his small city, every street, park, caf茅, library, parlor and bedroom carries this sense of humdrum dreariness - all times and places have turned dank, shadowy and lackluster as if emitting a soft unending groan.
"It's finished: the crowd is less congested, the hat-raisings less frequent, the shop windows have something less exquisite about them. I am at the end of the Rue Tournebride. Shall I cross and go up the street on the other side? I think I have had enough: I have seen enough pink skulls, thin, distinguished and faded countenances."
I recall walking in New York City to Penn Station to catch a train at the end of the day. The scene was grim, the vast majority of men and women having a hangdog, beaten down look. I was ready to leave. Roquintin has this feeling not only at the end of the day - he has it all the time.
"I have only my body: a man entirely alone, with his lonely body, cannot indulge in memories; they pass through him. I shouldn't complain: all I wanted was to be free."
An entire section of Sartre's Being and Nothingness is devoted to the body. In many ways Roquintin is like Pablo from Sartre's short story The Wall where Pablo feels being in his body is like being tied to an enormous vermin. Ahhh! No wonder Roquintin feels the Nausea.
"He deserves his face for he has never, for one instant, lost an occasion of utilizing his past to the best of his ability; he has stuffed it full, used his experience on women and children, exploited them."
Here Roquintin is alluding to an older man who is using his family to make a point displaying how wise he is and how correct his judgements. In this I'm in agreement with the novel's protagonist - I find such people overbearing. I was once in conversation with an older person who actually told me, as a way of discounting my position on a political matter: "You have to live a little," all the while hitting the scotch bottle. Curiously, a few years later, thanks mainly to all the scotch, this know-it-all was in very bad shape. I maintained a noble silence.
"But I would have to push the door open and enter. I didn't dare; I went on. Doors of houses frightened me especially. I was afraid they would open of themselves. I ended by walking in the middle of the street."
The narrator's sense of dread and estrangement has reached a point where even objects take on an ominous cast.
"I had thought out this sentence, at first it had been a small part of myself. Now it was inscribed on the paper, it sides against me. I didn't recognize it any more. i couldn't conceive it again. It was there, in front of me; in vain for me to trace some sign of origin. Anyone could have written it."
Yet again another example of his extreme alienation - the very words he writes on a page are viewed as something apart, as "the other," having nothing to do with who he really is as a person.
"Now I wanted to laugh. five feet tall! . . . I would have had to lean over or bend my knees. I was no longer surprised that he held up his nose so impetuously: the destiny of these small men is always working itself out a few inches about their head. Admirable power of art. From this shrill-voiced manikin, nothing would pass on to posterity same a threatening face, a superb gesture and the bloodshot eyes of a bull."
The portrait captures what Sartre in his philosophy termed "bad faith" - assuming false values that have turned him into a "shrill-voiced manikin."
"I jump up: it would be much better if I could only stop thinking. Thoughts are the dullest things. Duller than flesh. They stretch out and there's no end to them and they leave a funny taste in the mouth."
The mind is a wonderful servant but an ogre if it becomes one's taskmaster. How many people are trapped in their own thinking, continually reliving painful episodes of their past? Roquintin is one such example in the extreme.
"Things are divorced from their names. They are there, grotesque, headstrong, gigantic and it seems ridiculous to call them seats or say anything at all about them: I am in the midst of things, nameless things."
His Nausea has increased. All inanimate objects and situations are encroaching on what he perceives his intellectual and spiritual freedom.
Does Nausea sound disturbing? I strongly suspect this is exactly Jean-Paul Sartre's intent.
Jean-Paul Sartre, 1905-1980, French philosopher and author of a number of classic works of literature.
October 11, 2024
Ogier P. ('the self-taught man') is the symbol of everything that has gone wrong with the socialization process. Nausea places us in a situation where we have to ask ourselves: is knowledge for the sake of knowledge a wise way to spend your life; or can you have knowledge of trivial facts (e.g. game shows) and know nothing about who you are - a life not examined because knowledge was more important?
January 18, 2022
[Edited 1/18/2022]
Two of the blurbs call this book Sartre鈥檚 鈥渕ost enjoyable book鈥� and 鈥渢he best written and most interesting of Sartre鈥檚 novels.鈥� Perhaps 鈥� I don鈥檛 know as the only other one I鈥檝e read is No Exit, and so long ago I have no recollection of it. Wikipedia calls the novel one of the canonical works of existentialism. (I thought I had read others by Sartre but it turns out they were by Camus 鈥� I have a tendency to mix up those two guys. lol)
Nausea is structured as a diary. The main character and the writer of the diary is Antoine Roquentin, apparently an independently wealthy man who spends most of his day in the library researching and writing a biography of an 18th-century international political figure, a (fictional) man named Rollebon.
Other than incidental people like librarians and waiters, Antoine interacts only occasionally with two people: a man in the library we know only as 鈥淭he Self-Taught Man鈥� and a waitress that he regularly has sex with. We learn nothing about her but the Self-Taught Man is working his way methodically through the library alphabetically by author. Antoine also gives us snippets of caf茅 conversations he overhears.
The setting is the fictitious town of Bouville (Mudville) but according to Wiki it is Le Harve where Sartre was living when he wrote this book. The Self-Taught Man, enthusiastic about what he is learning, and the historical figure that Antoine is writing about, act as foils for his philosophical speculations.
At times our main character is uncertain why he is writing his book. 鈥淚n truth, what am I looking for? I don鈥檛 know. For a long time, Rollebon, the man has interested me more than the book to be written. But now, the man鈥he man begins to bore me. It is the book which attracts me, I feel more and more the need to write 鈥� in the same proportions as I grow old, you might say.鈥�
Antoine at times is overcome with鈥� Despair? Depression? Anomie? Mental illness? Awareness of the absurdity of life? He calls these periods bouts of nausea, although he never has the physical symptoms of nausea.
It鈥檚 best to let the novel speak for itself:
鈥淓verywhere, now, there are objects like this glass of beer on the table there. When I see it, I feel like saying: 鈥楨nough.鈥� 鈥� I have been avoiding looking at this glass of beer for half an hour鈥 am quietly slipping into the water鈥檚 depths toward fear.鈥�
鈥淚 very much like to pick up chestnuts, old rags and especially papers鈥�.but [suddenly] I was unable. I straightened up, empty-handed. I am no longer free, I can no longer do what I will.鈥�
鈥淥bjects should not touch because they are not alive. You use them, put them back in place, you live among them: they are useful, nothing more. But they touch me, it is unbearable. I am afraid of being in contact with them as though they were living beasts.鈥�
[In a caf茅]: 鈥淭here are four or five of them [card players]. I don鈥檛 know, I haven鈥檛 the courage to look at them. I have a broken spring. I can move my eyes but not my head. The head is all pliable and elastic, as though it had been simply set on my neck; if I did turn it, it will fall off.鈥�
鈥淗is blue shirt stands out joyfully against a chocolate-colored wall. That too brings on the Nausea. The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It makes itself one with the cafe, I am the one who is within it."
鈥� 鈥業 was just thinking,鈥� I tell him, laughing, 鈥榯hat here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.鈥� 鈥�
[on trees]: 鈥淭hey did not want to exist, only they could not help themselves鈥ired and old, they kept on existing, against the grain, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could only come to them from the outside鈥�.Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.鈥�
鈥淭hese are secretaries, office workers, shopkeepers, people who listen to others in cafes: around forty they feel swollen, with an experience they can鈥檛 get rid of. Luckily, they鈥檝e made children on whom they can pass it off. They would like to make us believe that their past is not lost, that their memories are condensed, gently transformed into wisdom. 鈥hen all is said and done, they have never understood anything at all.鈥�
There is one other character who appears near the end of the novel. She is Anny, a former lover of Antoine鈥檚, and he says he is still in love with her. She asks him to come to Paris, where she is passing through, to meet with her.
Antoine writes twice that he has not seen Anny for four years and twice that he has not seen her for six years. This makes us worry about the reliability of our narrator. We also remember that he is a name-dropper of places he has supposedly traveled. He never tells us why he was anywhere and they are always exotic places: Aden, Shanghai, Saigon, Benares 鈥� so we wonder.
The book has a slow start but it picks up and in the end it kept my attention all the way through.
Le Havre in the 1930鈥檚 from alamy.com
Modern Le Havre from us.france.fr
The author from alejandradeargos.com
Two of the blurbs call this book Sartre鈥檚 鈥渕ost enjoyable book鈥� and 鈥渢he best written and most interesting of Sartre鈥檚 novels.鈥� Perhaps 鈥� I don鈥檛 know as the only other one I鈥檝e read is No Exit, and so long ago I have no recollection of it. Wikipedia calls the novel one of the canonical works of existentialism. (I thought I had read others by Sartre but it turns out they were by Camus 鈥� I have a tendency to mix up those two guys. lol)
Nausea is structured as a diary. The main character and the writer of the diary is Antoine Roquentin, apparently an independently wealthy man who spends most of his day in the library researching and writing a biography of an 18th-century international political figure, a (fictional) man named Rollebon.
Other than incidental people like librarians and waiters, Antoine interacts only occasionally with two people: a man in the library we know only as 鈥淭he Self-Taught Man鈥� and a waitress that he regularly has sex with. We learn nothing about her but the Self-Taught Man is working his way methodically through the library alphabetically by author. Antoine also gives us snippets of caf茅 conversations he overhears.
The setting is the fictitious town of Bouville (Mudville) but according to Wiki it is Le Harve where Sartre was living when he wrote this book. The Self-Taught Man, enthusiastic about what he is learning, and the historical figure that Antoine is writing about, act as foils for his philosophical speculations.
At times our main character is uncertain why he is writing his book. 鈥淚n truth, what am I looking for? I don鈥檛 know. For a long time, Rollebon, the man has interested me more than the book to be written. But now, the man鈥he man begins to bore me. It is the book which attracts me, I feel more and more the need to write 鈥� in the same proportions as I grow old, you might say.鈥�
Antoine at times is overcome with鈥� Despair? Depression? Anomie? Mental illness? Awareness of the absurdity of life? He calls these periods bouts of nausea, although he never has the physical symptoms of nausea.
It鈥檚 best to let the novel speak for itself:
鈥淓verywhere, now, there are objects like this glass of beer on the table there. When I see it, I feel like saying: 鈥楨nough.鈥� 鈥� I have been avoiding looking at this glass of beer for half an hour鈥 am quietly slipping into the water鈥檚 depths toward fear.鈥�
鈥淚 very much like to pick up chestnuts, old rags and especially papers鈥�.but [suddenly] I was unable. I straightened up, empty-handed. I am no longer free, I can no longer do what I will.鈥�
鈥淥bjects should not touch because they are not alive. You use them, put them back in place, you live among them: they are useful, nothing more. But they touch me, it is unbearable. I am afraid of being in contact with them as though they were living beasts.鈥�
[In a caf茅]: 鈥淭here are four or five of them [card players]. I don鈥檛 know, I haven鈥檛 the courage to look at them. I have a broken spring. I can move my eyes but not my head. The head is all pliable and elastic, as though it had been simply set on my neck; if I did turn it, it will fall off.鈥�
鈥淗is blue shirt stands out joyfully against a chocolate-colored wall. That too brings on the Nausea. The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It makes itself one with the cafe, I am the one who is within it."
鈥� 鈥業 was just thinking,鈥� I tell him, laughing, 鈥榯hat here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.鈥� 鈥�
[on trees]: 鈥淭hey did not want to exist, only they could not help themselves鈥ired and old, they kept on existing, against the grain, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could only come to them from the outside鈥�.Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.鈥�
鈥淭hese are secretaries, office workers, shopkeepers, people who listen to others in cafes: around forty they feel swollen, with an experience they can鈥檛 get rid of. Luckily, they鈥檝e made children on whom they can pass it off. They would like to make us believe that their past is not lost, that their memories are condensed, gently transformed into wisdom. 鈥hen all is said and done, they have never understood anything at all.鈥�
There is one other character who appears near the end of the novel. She is Anny, a former lover of Antoine鈥檚, and he says he is still in love with her. She asks him to come to Paris, where she is passing through, to meet with her.
Antoine writes twice that he has not seen Anny for four years and twice that he has not seen her for six years. This makes us worry about the reliability of our narrator. We also remember that he is a name-dropper of places he has supposedly traveled. He never tells us why he was anywhere and they are always exotic places: Aden, Shanghai, Saigon, Benares 鈥� so we wonder.
The book has a slow start but it picks up and in the end it kept my attention all the way through.
Le Havre in the 1930鈥檚 from alamy.com
Modern Le Havre from us.france.fr
The author from alejandradeargos.com
July 4, 2015
賲丨卮乇 亘賵丿. 丕賳诏丕乇 丿丕卮鬲賲 夭賳丿诏蹖 禺賵丿賲 乇賵 賲蹖禺賵賳丿賲. 賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕蹖 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵 爻胤乇 亘賴 爻胤乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賲. 丕夭 賴賲賵賳 卮乇賵毓 亘賴 禺賵丿賲 诏賮鬲賲 "毓噩亘 氐丨賳賴 乇賵卮賳蹖" "趩賯丿乇 賴賲賴 丕蹖賳 賳賵卮鬲賴 賴丕 夭賳丿賴 丕爻." 亘毓囟蹖 丕夭 氐賮丨賴 賴丕蹖 讴鬲丕亘 丕賵賳賯丿乇 夭蹖亘丕 亘賵丿 讴賴 亘乇賲蹖诏卮鬲賲 賵 丿賵亘丕乇賴 賵 爻賴 亘丕乇賴 賲蹖禺賵賳丿賲. 鬲賵蹖 亘蹖卮鬲乇 氐賮丨賴 賴丕蹖 讴鬲丕亘 蹖賴 禺賱丕亍 賵 蹖賴 倬賵趩蹖 禺丕氐 賵噩賵丿 丿丕卮鬲 讴賴 乇賵丨 賲賳 乇賵 噩匕亘 賲蹖 讴乇丿. 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿賯蹖賯丕 賴蹖趩 趩蹖夭蹖 乇賵 乇賵丕蹖鬲 賳賲蹖讴賳賴 亘噩夭 禺賵丿 賴蹖趩.. 亘噩夭 倬賵趩蹖.. 亘賴 噩丕蹖 賵噩賵丿.. 卮丕蹖丿 亘卮賴 诏賮鬲 爻賱賵讴 蹖讴 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 丿乇 噩賴鬲 賲毓賳丕 亘禺卮蹖丿賳 亘賴 锟斤拷賳丿诏蹖.. 禺蹖賱蹖 毓丕賱蹖 賵 亘蹖 賳馗蹖乇 亘賵丿. 賴乇趩賳丿 讴賴 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲賳 亘乇丕蹖 丕乇鬲亘丕胤 亘乇賯乇丕乇 讴乇丿賳 亘丕 丕蹖賳 夭蹖亘丕蹖蹖 亘丕蹖丿 蹖賴 卮讴賱 禺丕氐蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賴 亘丕卮蹖.. 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳 丕賵賳賯丿乇 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵卮賳蹖 亘賵丿 讴賴 丕賳诏丕乇 禺賵丿賲 賴賲賴 爻胤乇 賴丕卮 乇賵 賳賵卮鬲賲.. 賮讴乇 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 丕诏賴 爻丕乇鬲乇 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 乇賵 賳賲蹖 賳賵卮鬲 賯胤毓丕 蹖乇賵夭蹖 賲賳 丕賳噩丕賲卮 賲蹖丿丕丿賲. 賮賵賯 丕賱毓丕丿賴 亘賵丿...
February 23, 2017
Third time lucky...
I have always preferred the work of Albert Camus when it comes to the subject of 'existentialism'. It has taken me three attempts to read Nausea to finally appreciate. Whereas I just found Camus easier to digest immediately. This small novel is no doubt an important work and essential reading for philosophical purposes. I remember reading Camus's 'The Stranger and Sartre's Nausea back to back, similar in some ways, not in others, The Stranger lingered for weeks, Nausea drifted away.
But for whatever reason, this time around things just clicked. Maybe it helped reading 'The Age of Reason' to finally grasp him, the fact I am a fan of Simone de Beauvoir should mean looking at Sartre in a better light, after all he took her under his wing during her creative days at university. They enjoyed each others company, and this goes to show men and women can become great friends without becoming lovers.
Sartre, writer and philosophy professor has certainly embedded himself in literary history, and would say he could have been viewed as the French Kafka by virtue of his gift for expressing the horror of certain intellectual situations, if it weren鈥檛 that his ideas, unlike those of the author of 鈥淭he Great Wall of China,鈥� were not completely foreign to moral problems. Kafka always questioned the meaning of life. Sartre only questions the fact of existence, which is an order of reality much more immediate than the human and social elaborations of the life that is on this side of life.
鈥淣ausea,鈥� the journal of Antoine Roquentin, is the novel of absolute solitude, a solitude that made me feel uncomfortable. It is a question here of nothing but the spiritual results of solitude. They are analyzed with a rigor of thought and expression that will no doubt seem intolerable to most readers. Now I see the light, a philosophical novelist of the first order. Since Voltaire, we know that in France the philosophical novel has been a light genre, not far from the fable. Sartre鈥檚 literature bears no relation to this frivolous genre, but it gives a very good idea of what a literature associated to an existentialist philosophy might be. The law of the man who is rigorously alone is not the fear of nothingness, but the fear of existence. This discovery takes us far.
If his first novel was a work without a solution, by which I mean that it no more opens up any solutions for the universe than the principal works of Dostoevsky, it would perhaps be a singular success without a successor. But with its final pages 鈥淣ausea鈥� is not a book without a solution. Jean-Paul Sartre who throughout the novel paints a portrait of a great bourgeois city of social caricature, and has gifts as a novelist that are too precise and too cruel not to result in great denunciations, not to completely open up into reality, a reality I would rather not see.
A seminal work that I will come to appreciate even more over the space of time.
I have always preferred the work of Albert Camus when it comes to the subject of 'existentialism'. It has taken me three attempts to read Nausea to finally appreciate. Whereas I just found Camus easier to digest immediately. This small novel is no doubt an important work and essential reading for philosophical purposes. I remember reading Camus's 'The Stranger and Sartre's Nausea back to back, similar in some ways, not in others, The Stranger lingered for weeks, Nausea drifted away.
But for whatever reason, this time around things just clicked. Maybe it helped reading 'The Age of Reason' to finally grasp him, the fact I am a fan of Simone de Beauvoir should mean looking at Sartre in a better light, after all he took her under his wing during her creative days at university. They enjoyed each others company, and this goes to show men and women can become great friends without becoming lovers.
Sartre, writer and philosophy professor has certainly embedded himself in literary history, and would say he could have been viewed as the French Kafka by virtue of his gift for expressing the horror of certain intellectual situations, if it weren鈥檛 that his ideas, unlike those of the author of 鈥淭he Great Wall of China,鈥� were not completely foreign to moral problems. Kafka always questioned the meaning of life. Sartre only questions the fact of existence, which is an order of reality much more immediate than the human and social elaborations of the life that is on this side of life.
鈥淣ausea,鈥� the journal of Antoine Roquentin, is the novel of absolute solitude, a solitude that made me feel uncomfortable. It is a question here of nothing but the spiritual results of solitude. They are analyzed with a rigor of thought and expression that will no doubt seem intolerable to most readers. Now I see the light, a philosophical novelist of the first order. Since Voltaire, we know that in France the philosophical novel has been a light genre, not far from the fable. Sartre鈥檚 literature bears no relation to this frivolous genre, but it gives a very good idea of what a literature associated to an existentialist philosophy might be. The law of the man who is rigorously alone is not the fear of nothingness, but the fear of existence. This discovery takes us far.
If his first novel was a work without a solution, by which I mean that it no more opens up any solutions for the universe than the principal works of Dostoevsky, it would perhaps be a singular success without a successor. But with its final pages 鈥淣ausea鈥� is not a book without a solution. Jean-Paul Sartre who throughout the novel paints a portrait of a great bourgeois city of social caricature, and has gifts as a novelist that are too precise and too cruel not to result in great denunciations, not to completely open up into reality, a reality I would rather not see.
A seminal work that I will come to appreciate even more over the space of time.
March 19, 2012
Okay, wow. They should stock this thing in the bible section. Or the adult erotica section, because either way it gives you some pretty intense experiences.
In a nutshell: this book is kind of like an existentialist essay in the form of a diary. It's about this red-haired writer guy Antoine Roquentin, who's recently been overwhelmed with an intolerable awareness of his own existence. Like, super intolerable. Like, a soul-crushing, mind-blowing, nausea-inducing kind of intolerable. It's pretty awesome.
And the best thing - the best. thing. - was the accessibility of it all. Sartre, the fiend, satisfied me in ways that Dostoevsky and Camus never could. I mean, when has an existentialist exposition ever been made so readable? So ironic and captivating, so funny - there were times I actually laughed out loud. Moreover, Sartre gets me. I honestly cannot describe the feeling of holding a crummy paperback filled with words written over 50 years ago, and finding one of your own thoughts in amongst those of a fictional character. I guess it's what Christians must feel like when they read the bible. Or what middle-aged single women feel while reading a particularly steamy passage of Passion in the Prairie.
This is the kind of book you could read again and again, discovering some new detail every time, and getting something different out of it with every read. A new favourite!
In a nutshell: this book is kind of like an existentialist essay in the form of a diary. It's about this red-haired writer guy Antoine Roquentin, who's recently been overwhelmed with an intolerable awareness of his own existence. Like, super intolerable. Like, a soul-crushing, mind-blowing, nausea-inducing kind of intolerable. It's pretty awesome.
And the best thing - the best. thing. - was the accessibility of it all. Sartre, the fiend, satisfied me in ways that Dostoevsky and Camus never could. I mean, when has an existentialist exposition ever been made so readable? So ironic and captivating, so funny - there were times I actually laughed out loud. Moreover, Sartre gets me. I honestly cannot describe the feeling of holding a crummy paperback filled with words written over 50 years ago, and finding one of your own thoughts in amongst those of a fictional character. I guess it's what Christians must feel like when they read the bible. Or what middle-aged single women feel while reading a particularly steamy passage of Passion in the Prairie.
This is the kind of book you could read again and again, discovering some new detail every time, and getting something different out of it with every read. A new favourite!
December 11, 2017
鈥淪ome of these days
You鈥檒l miss me honey鈥�
芦螚 谓伪蠀蟿委伪禄 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 位慰纬慰蟿蔚蠂谓喂魏萎 魏伪蟿维位畏尉畏 蟿畏蟼 胃蔚蠅蟻委伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 渭慰谓伪蠂喂魏慰蠉 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿伪蟽蟿蟻苇蠁蔚蟿伪喂.
螠苇蟽伪 蟽蟿慰谓 蟿蟻蠈渭慰 蟿畏蟼 渭维蟿伪喂畏蟼 伪谓伪味萎蟿畏蟽畏蟼 谓慰萎渭伪蟿慰蟼,伪蟺蔚喂魏慰谓委味慰谓蟿伪喂 渭蔚 魏维胃蔚 位蔚蟺蟿慰渭苇蟻蔚喂伪 渭畏 尾喂蠋蟽喂渭慰喂 萎蟻蠅蔚蟼, 蟿蟻慰渭伪魏蟿喂魏慰委, 胃位喂尾蔚蟻慰委,伪蠁蠈蟻畏蟿慰喂.
螘魏蟿蠈蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿畏 胃位委蠄畏 蟿畏蟼 未喂维位蠀蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 魏伪喂 畏 慰未蠀谓畏蟻萎 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰喂畏渭苇谓畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 魏蔚谓苇蟼 魏伪喂 伪谓蔚蟺伪蟻魏蔚委蟼 蠀蟺慰蟽蟿维蟽蔚喂蟼. 违蟺维蟻尉蔚喂蟼 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 蟺伪蟻蔚位胃蠈谓, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 渭苇位位慰谓, 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蟺伪蟻蠈谓 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰 未喂伪蟺蔚蟻谓维 畏 渭蔚蟿伪蠁蠀蟽喂魏萎 胃位委蠄畏 蟿畏蟼 未喂维位蠀蟽畏蟼
芦螝螒螛螘 违螤螒巍螢螚 螕螘螡螡螜螘韦螒螜 螒螡螒螜韦螜螒
螙螘螜 螒螤螣 螒螖违螡螒螠螜螒 螝螒螜
螤螘螛螒螜螡螘螜 韦违围螒螜螒禄
螣 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 巍慰魏伪谓蟿苇谓 (蟽蠀渭尾慰位喂魏维 魏蠅渭喂魏蠈, 蟽畏渭伪委谓蔚喂 慰 纬蔚位慰委慰蟼 纬苇蟻慰蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟺伪蟻喂蟽蟿维谓蔚喂 蟿慰谓 谓蔚伪蟻蠈 魏伪喂 苇蠂蔚喂 魏维谓蔚喂 蟿慰 未喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 纬蠉蟻慰 蟿慰蠀 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀)
蔚委谓伪喂 慰 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿萎蟼 蟿慰蠀 尾喂尾位委慰蠀.
螘委谓伪喂 慰 芦蟽蠀位位慰纬喂魏蠈蟼 维谓胃蟻蠅蟺慰蟼禄 蟺慰蠀 伪蟺慰蟻蟻慰蠁维蟿伪喂 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂蠋蟼 魏伪喂 苇谓蟿慰谓伪 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪蟿萎蟻畏蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 未委魏畏蟼 蟿慰蠀 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼.
螒谓伪位慰纬委味蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 纬蔚纬慰谓蠈蟼 蠈蟿喂 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂, 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 蟽伪谓 渭喂伪 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 蟽蠀谓未苇蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 蟿慰 蟽蠋渭伪 蟿慰蠀 慰蟺慰委慰蠀 蟿慰 蟽蠀位位慰纬喂魏蠈 蠈谓慰渭伪 蔚委谓伪喂 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 巍慰魏伪谓蟿苇谓.
螚 伪谓蟿委未蟻伪蟽畏 纬喂伪 渭喂伪 蟿苇蟿慰喂伪 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰委畏蟽畏 胃伪 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉蟽蔚 谓伪 蠂伪蟻伪魏蟿畏蟻喂蟽蟿蔚委 蠅蟼 蟺伪谓蟿慰未蠀谓伪渭委伪, 蠅蟼 胃伪蠉渭伪 -蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 谓蠈畏蟽畏蟼 萎 蟺伪蟻伪谓蠈畏蟽畏蟼- 渭喂伪蟼 伪谓蠋蟿蔚蟻畏蟼 未蠉谓伪渭畏蟼.
螕喂伪 蟿慰谓 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 蠈渭蠅蟼, 畏 伪谓蟿委未蟻伪蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰魏蠉蟺蟿蔚喂 蔚委谓伪喂 慰 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿慰蟼 蟿蟻蠈渭慰蟼. 韦慰谓 未喂伪蟺谓苇蔚喂 蔚尉 慰位慰魏位萎蟻慰蠀 渭喂伪 伪谓蟿委位畏蠄畏 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 魏蔚谓萎, 蟻喂味蠅渭苇谓畏 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 蟺慰蠀 慰未畏纬蔚委 蟽蔚 蠄蠀蠂慰蟽蠅渭伪蟿喂魏苇蟼 伪喂蟽胃萎蟽蔚喂蟼. 螚 魏蠀蟻喂蠈蟿蔚蟻畏 伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 慰谓慰渭维味蔚蟿伪喂 螡伪蠀蟿委伪.
螕喂伪 谓伪 伪蟺慰蠁蠉纬蔚喂 蟿畏 谓伪蠀蟿委伪 慰 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 尾蠀胃委味蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿畏 渭蔚位苇蟿畏 蟿慰蠀 蟺伪蟻蔚位胃蠈谓蟿慰蟼, 味蔚喂 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 魏蠅渭蠈蟺慰位畏 蟿畏蟼 螕伪位位委伪蟼 魏伪喂 渭蔚位蔚蟿维 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓维 纬喂伪 谓伪 纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 蟿畏 尾喂慰纬蟻伪蠁委伪 蔚谓蠈蟼 蟺慰谓畏蟻慰蠉 蟿蠀蠂慰未喂蠋魏蟿畏, 蟿慰蠀 螠伪蟻魏萎蟽喂慰蠀 谓蟿蔚 巍慰位渭蟺蠈谓.
螚 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿慰蠀 蔚魏蠁蟻伪味蔚喂 蟺慰喂魏喂位委伪 喂未蔚蠋谓 魏伪喂 谓慰畏渭维蟿蠅谓.
危蟿慰谓 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓蠈 蟺蔚蟻委蟺伪蟿慰 蟿畏蟼 伪蟽蟿喂魏萎蟼 蟿维尉畏蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰魏伪位蔚委 谓伪蠀蟿委伪, 渭伪胃伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚 蟺蠅蟼 慰喂 伪蟽蟿慰委 蔚委谓伪喂 魏伪胃维蟻渭伪蟿伪 魏伪喂 蔚尉伪蟺伪蟿畏渭苇谓蔚蟼 渭伪 喂蟽蠂蠀蟻苇蟼 蠀蟺维蟻尉蔚喂蟼.
危蟿畏谓 蟿慰蟺喂魏萎 尾喂尾位喂慰胃萎魏畏 谓喂蠋胃慰蠀渭蔚 蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 蟿慰蠀 伪蟽蟿喂魏慰蠉 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂蟽渭慰蠉 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 伪喂蟽喂慰未慰尉委伪蟼. 危蠉渭蠁蠅谓伪 蠈渭蠅蟼 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓, 未蔚谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 伪谓伪味萎蟿畏蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蟽畏渭伪蟽委伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 魏伪渭委伪 胃苇蟽畏 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂蟽渭慰蠉 萎 蔚位蟺委未伪蟼.
螒蟺慰 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻蠋畏谓 伪纬伪蟺畏渭苇谓畏 蟿慰蠀 苇蠂慰蠀渭蔚 渭喂伪 维位位畏 蟺蟻慰慰蟺蟿喂魏萎 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏.
危蠉渭蠁蠅谓伪 渭蔚 蟿畏谓 螁谓谓蠀 蟿伪 蟺伪喂未喂魏维 魏伪蟿维位慰喂蟺伪 蟻喂味蠋谓慰蠀谓 纬喂伪 蟺维谓蟿伪 蟽蟿畏 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 畏 蠀蟺苇蟻尾伪蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 渭伪蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿慰 渭蔚纬伪位蔚委慰 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀.
螣 胃维谓伪蟿慰蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 渭喂伪 芦蟺蟻慰谓慰渭喂慰蠉蠂慰蟼 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏禄 蔚尉伪喂蟿委伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟽畏渭伪蟽委伪蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰蠀 伪蟺慰未委未蔚蟿伪喂 蠈蠂喂 渭蠈谓慰 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 伪位位维 魏伪喂 蠅蟼 胃苇渭伪 蟽蔚 蟺慰位位维 苇蟻纬伪 蟿苇蠂谓畏蟼.
螕蟻伪渭渭苇谓畏 蟽伪谓 苇谓伪 蔚委未慰蟼 畏渭蔚蟻慰位慰纬委慰蠀 芦畏 螡伪蠀蟿委伪禄 未喂伪尾维味蔚蟿伪喂 蠅蟼 渭谓畏渭蔚委慰 伪蠁慰蟻喂蟽渭蠋谓 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 魏伪喂 蟿慰 伪谓蟿委胃蔚蟿慰 蟿畏蟼.
螘喂蟻蠅谓蔚委伪,渭慰谓伪尉喂维, 伪蟺蠈纬谓蠅蟽畏, 胃位委蠄畏, 蟽伪蟻魏伪蟽渭蠈蟼 蔚渭蟺蔚蟻喂苇蠂慰谓蟿伪喂 蠅蟼 尾伪胃喂维 蠀蟺慰魏蔚喂渭蔚谓喂魏苇蟼 伪蟺蠈蠄蔚喂蟼.
芦螚 螡伪蠀蟿委伪禄 胃蟻喂伪渭尾蔚蠉蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺蔚喂蟽蟿喂魏萎 蔚魏蠁蟻伪蟽蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟽未委未蔚喂 慰 危伪蟻蟿蟻 蟽蟿慰谓 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿萎 蟿慰蠀 尾喂尾位委慰蠀.
螣 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 谓伪 渭蔚蟿伪蠁苇蟻蔚喂 渭蔚 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿伪 未喂伪蠀纬萎 纬位蠋蟽蟽伪 蟿喂蟼 喂未苇蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟿喂蟼 蟽魏苇蠄蔚喂蟼 蟺慰蠀 尾蟻委蟽魏慰谓蟿伪喂 蟺委蟽蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿喂蟼 伪蟺位苇蟼 蔚蟻渭畏谓蔚委蔚蟼, 蟿慰 蟺蔚蟿蠀蠂伪委谓蔚喂 蟿苇位蔚喂伪 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 伪蟺慰魏蔚蠁伪位喂蟽渭蠈 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蟿慰蠀.
螘委谓伪喂 维魏慰渭蠄慰蟼 魏伪喂 蔚蟽蠅蟽蟿蟻蔚蠁萎蟼, 魏蠀魏位慰胃蠀渭喂魏蠈蟼 魏伪喂 伪蟺伪喂蟽喂蠈未慰尉伪 未喂伪位蠀渭苇谓慰蟼, 蠈渭蠅蟼 伪谓伪位蠉蔚喂 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 蟿畏 蠁蠉蟽畏 魏伪喂 蠂伪蟻委味蔚喂 伪蟺位蠈蠂蔚蟻伪 未喂伪谓慰畏蟿喂魏萎 蔚谓苇蟻纬蔚喂伪 魏伪喂 尾伪蟽伪谓喂蟽蟿喂魏慰蠉蟼 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰蠀蟼 魏伪蟿伪谓蠈畏蟽畏蟼 蟿畏蟼 蔚尉慰渭慰位蠈纬畏蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀.
芦螚 螡伪蠀蟿委伪禄 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿慰 蟺蟻蠋蟿慰 苇蟻纬慰 蟿慰蠀 危伪蟻蟿蟻 蟺慰蠀 未喂伪尾维味蠅 魏伪喂 谓慰渭委味蠅 蟺蠅蟼 胃伪 蔚委谓伪喂 魏伪喂 蟿慰 蟿蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委慰.
螆谓喂蠅蟽伪 蟿蟻慰渭蔚蟻萎 蟺委蔚蟽畏, 胃位委蠄畏 魏伪喂 伪蟺苇蟻伪谓蟿畏 蠄蠀蠂慰位慰纬喂魏萎 蟺委蔚蟽畏 蟽蔚 尾伪胃渭蠈 蠁胃慰蟻维蟼. 螠喂伪 胃畏位喂维 蟽蟿慰 位伪喂渭蠈 蟺慰蠀 苇蟽蠁喂纬纬蔚 蟽蟿伪未喂伪魏维 渭苇蠂蟻喂 谓伪 纬委谓蔚喂 伪蠁蠈蟻畏蟿伪 蟺谓喂纬畏蟻萎... 魏伪喂 渭委伪 伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 谓伪蠀蟿委伪蟼 ...
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏.
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼.
You鈥檒l miss me honey鈥�
芦螚 谓伪蠀蟿委伪禄 蔚委谓伪喂 畏 位慰纬慰蟿蔚蠂谓喂魏萎 魏伪蟿维位畏尉畏 蟿畏蟼 胃蔚蠅蟻委伪蟼 蟿慰蠀 渭慰谓伪蠂喂魏慰蠉 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺慰蠀 蟺慰蠀 魏伪蟿伪蟽蟿蟻苇蠁蔚蟿伪喂.
螠苇蟽伪 蟽蟿慰谓 蟿蟻蠈渭慰 蟿畏蟼 渭维蟿伪喂畏蟼 伪谓伪味萎蟿畏蟽畏蟼 谓慰萎渭伪蟿慰蟼,伪蟺蔚喂魏慰谓委味慰谓蟿伪喂 渭蔚 魏维胃蔚 位蔚蟺蟿慰渭苇蟻蔚喂伪 渭畏 尾喂蠋蟽喂渭慰喂 萎蟻蠅蔚蟼, 蟿蟻慰渭伪魏蟿喂魏慰委, 胃位喂尾蔚蟻慰委,伪蠁蠈蟻畏蟿慰喂.
螘魏蟿蠈蟼 伪蟺慰 蟿畏 胃位委蠄畏 蟿畏蟼 未喂维位蠀蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 魏伪喂 畏 慰未蠀谓畏蟻萎 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰喂畏渭苇谓畏 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蟺蠅蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 魏蔚谓苇蟼 魏伪喂 伪谓蔚蟺伪蟻魏蔚委蟼 蠀蟺慰蟽蟿维蟽蔚喂蟼. 违蟺维蟻尉蔚喂蟼 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 蟺伪蟻蔚位胃蠈谓, 蠂蠅蟻委蟼 渭苇位位慰谓, 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 蟺伪蟻蠈谓 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰 未喂伪蟺蔚蟻谓维 畏 渭蔚蟿伪蠁蠀蟽喂魏萎 胃位委蠄畏 蟿畏蟼 未喂维位蠀蟽畏蟼
芦螝螒螛螘 违螤螒巍螢螚 螕螘螡螡螜螘韦螒螜 螒螡螒螜韦螜螒
螙螘螜 螒螤螣 螒螖违螡螒螠螜螒 螝螒螜
螤螘螛螒螜螡螘螜 韦违围螒螜螒禄
螣 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 巍慰魏伪谓蟿苇谓 (蟽蠀渭尾慰位喂魏维 魏蠅渭喂魏蠈, 蟽畏渭伪委谓蔚喂 慰 纬蔚位慰委慰蟼 纬苇蟻慰蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟺伪蟻喂蟽蟿维谓蔚喂 蟿慰谓 谓蔚伪蟻蠈 魏伪喂 苇蠂蔚喂 魏维谓蔚喂 蟿慰 未喂魏蠈 蟿慰蠀 纬蠉蟻慰 蟿慰蠀 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀)
蔚委谓伪喂 慰 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿萎蟼 蟿慰蠀 尾喂尾位委慰蠀.
螘委谓伪喂 慰 芦蟽蠀位位慰纬喂魏蠈蟼 维谓胃蟻蠅蟺慰蟼禄 蟺慰蠀 伪蟺慰蟻蟻慰蠁维蟿伪喂 蟽蠀谓蔚蠂蠋蟼 魏伪喂 苇谓蟿慰谓伪 伪蟺慰 蟿畏谓 蟺伪蟻伪蟿萎蟻畏蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 未委魏畏蟼 蟿慰蠀 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼.
螒谓伪位慰纬委味蔚蟿伪喂 蟿慰 纬蔚纬慰谓蠈蟼 蠈蟿喂 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂, 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 蟽伪谓 渭喂伪 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 蟽蠀谓未苇蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 蟿慰 蟽蠋渭伪 蟿慰蠀 慰蟺慰委慰蠀 蟿慰 蟽蠀位位慰纬喂魏蠈 蠈谓慰渭伪 蔚委谓伪喂 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 巍慰魏伪谓蟿苇谓.
螚 伪谓蟿委未蟻伪蟽畏 纬喂伪 渭喂伪 蟿苇蟿慰喂伪 蟽蠀谓蔚喂未畏蟿慰蟺慰委畏蟽畏 胃伪 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉蟽蔚 谓伪 蠂伪蟻伪魏蟿畏蟻喂蟽蟿蔚委 蠅蟼 蟺伪谓蟿慰未蠀谓伪渭委伪, 蠅蟼 胃伪蠉渭伪 -蟿畏蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 谓蠈畏蟽畏蟼 萎 蟺伪蟻伪谓蠈畏蟽畏蟼- 渭喂伪蟼 伪谓蠋蟿蔚蟻畏蟼 未蠉谓伪渭畏蟼.
螕喂伪 蟿慰谓 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 蠈渭蠅蟼, 畏 伪谓蟿委未蟻伪蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰魏蠉蟺蟿蔚喂 蔚委谓伪喂 慰 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿慰蟼 蟿蟻蠈渭慰蟼. 韦慰谓 未喂伪蟺谓苇蔚喂 蔚尉 慰位慰魏位萎蟻慰蠀 渭喂伪 伪谓蟿委位畏蠄畏 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 魏蔚谓萎, 蟻喂味蠅渭苇谓畏 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 蟺慰蠀 慰未畏纬蔚委 蟽蔚 蠄蠀蠂慰蟽蠅渭伪蟿喂魏苇蟼 伪喂蟽胃萎蟽蔚喂蟼. 螚 魏蠀蟻喂蠈蟿蔚蟻畏 伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 慰谓慰渭维味蔚蟿伪喂 螡伪蠀蟿委伪.
螕喂伪 谓伪 伪蟺慰蠁蠉纬蔚喂 蟿畏 谓伪蠀蟿委伪 慰 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 尾蠀胃委味蔚蟿伪喂 蟽蟿畏 渭蔚位苇蟿畏 蟿慰蠀 蟺伪蟻蔚位胃蠈谓蟿慰蟼, 味蔚喂 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 魏蠅渭蠈蟺慰位畏 蟿畏蟼 螕伪位位委伪蟼 魏伪喂 渭蔚位蔚蟿维 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓维 纬喂伪 谓伪 纬蟻维蠄蔚喂 蟿畏 尾喂慰纬蟻伪蠁委伪 蔚谓蠈蟼 蟺慰谓畏蟻慰蠉 蟿蠀蠂慰未喂蠋魏蟿畏, 蟿慰蠀 螠伪蟻魏萎蟽喂慰蠀 谓蟿蔚 巍慰位渭蟺蠈谓.
螚 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟿慰蠀 蔚魏蠁蟻伪味蔚喂 蟺慰喂魏喂位委伪 喂未蔚蠋谓 魏伪喂 谓慰畏渭维蟿蠅谓.
危蟿慰谓 魏伪胃畏渭蔚蟻喂谓蠈 蟺蔚蟻委蟺伪蟿慰 蟿畏蟼 伪蟽蟿喂魏萎蟼 蟿维尉畏蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰魏伪位蔚委 谓伪蠀蟿委伪, 渭伪胃伪委谓慰蠀渭蔚 蟺蠅蟼 慰喂 伪蟽蟿慰委 蔚委谓伪喂 魏伪胃维蟻渭伪蟿伪 魏伪喂 蔚尉伪蟺伪蟿畏渭苇谓蔚蟼 渭伪 喂蟽蠂蠀蟻苇蟼 蠀蟺维蟻尉蔚喂蟼.
危蟿畏谓 蟿慰蟺喂魏萎 尾喂尾位喂慰胃萎魏畏 谓喂蠋胃慰蠀渭蔚 蟿畏谓 慰蠀蟽委伪 蟿慰蠀 伪蟽蟿喂魏慰蠉 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂蟽渭慰蠉 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 伪喂蟽喂慰未慰尉委伪蟼. 危蠉渭蠁蠅谓伪 蠈渭蠅蟼 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓, 未蔚谓 蠀蟺维蟻蠂蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 伪谓伪味萎蟿畏蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蟽畏渭伪蟽委伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 味蠅萎蟼 魏伪渭委伪 胃苇蟽畏 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂蟽渭慰蠉 萎 蔚位蟺委未伪蟼.
螒蟺慰 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻蠋畏谓 伪纬伪蟺畏渭苇谓畏 蟿慰蠀 苇蠂慰蠀渭蔚 渭喂伪 维位位畏 蟺蟻慰慰蟺蟿喂魏萎 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏.
危蠉渭蠁蠅谓伪 渭蔚 蟿畏谓 螁谓谓蠀 蟿伪 蟺伪喂未喂魏维 魏伪蟿维位慰喂蟺伪 蟻喂味蠋谓慰蠀谓 纬喂伪 蟺维谓蟿伪 蟽蟿畏 蟽蠀谓蔚委未畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 畏 蠀蟺苇蟻尾伪蟽畏 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 渭伪蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿慰 渭蔚纬伪位蔚委慰 蟿慰蠀 胃伪谓维蟿慰蠀.
螣 胃维谓伪蟿慰蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 渭喂伪 芦蟺蟻慰谓慰渭喂慰蠉蠂慰蟼 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏禄 蔚尉伪喂蟿委伪蟼 蟿畏蟼 蟽畏渭伪蟽委伪蟼 蟺慰蠀 蟿慰蠀 伪蟺慰未委未蔚蟿伪喂 蠈蠂喂 渭蠈谓慰 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺蟻伪纬渭伪蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 伪位位维 魏伪喂 蠅蟼 胃苇渭伪 蟽蔚 蟺慰位位维 苇蟻纬伪 蟿苇蠂谓畏蟼.
螕蟻伪渭渭苇谓畏 蟽伪谓 苇谓伪 蔚委未慰蟼 畏渭蔚蟻慰位慰纬委慰蠀 芦畏 螡伪蠀蟿委伪禄 未喂伪尾维味蔚蟿伪喂 蠅蟼 渭谓畏渭蔚委慰 伪蠁慰蟻喂蟽渭蠋谓 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏 魏伪喂 蟿慰 伪谓蟿委胃蔚蟿慰 蟿畏蟼.
螘喂蟻蠅谓蔚委伪,渭慰谓伪尉喂维, 伪蟺蠈纬谓蠅蟽畏, 胃位委蠄畏, 蟽伪蟻魏伪蟽渭蠈蟼 蔚渭蟺蔚蟻喂苇蠂慰谓蟿伪喂 蠅蟼 尾伪胃喂维 蠀蟺慰魏蔚喂渭蔚谓喂魏苇蟼 伪蟺蠈蠄蔚喂蟼.
芦螚 螡伪蠀蟿委伪禄 胃蟻喂伪渭尾蔚蠉蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺蔚喂蟽蟿喂魏萎 蔚魏蠁蟻伪蟽蟿喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿伪 蟺慰蠀 蟺蟻慰蟽未委未蔚喂 慰 危伪蟻蟿蟻 蟽蟿慰谓 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪纬蠅谓喂蟽蟿萎 蟿慰蠀 尾喂尾位委慰蠀.
螣 螒谓蟿慰蠀维谓 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 谓伪 渭蔚蟿伪蠁苇蟻蔚喂 渭蔚 伪蟺蠈位蠀蟿伪 未喂伪蠀纬萎 纬位蠋蟽蟽伪 蟿喂蟼 喂未苇蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟿喂蟼 蟽魏苇蠄蔚喂蟼 蟺慰蠀 尾蟻委蟽魏慰谓蟿伪喂 蟺委蟽蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿喂蟼 伪蟺位苇蟼 蔚蟻渭畏谓蔚委蔚蟼, 蟿慰 蟺蔚蟿蠀蠂伪委谓蔚喂 蟿苇位蔚喂伪 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 伪蟺慰魏蔚蠁伪位喂蟽渭蠈 蟿畏蟼 蠉蟺伪蟻尉畏蟼 蟿慰蠀.
螘委谓伪喂 维魏慰渭蠄慰蟼 魏伪喂 蔚蟽蠅蟽蟿蟻蔚蠁萎蟼, 魏蠀魏位慰胃蠀渭喂魏蠈蟼 魏伪喂 伪蟺伪喂蟽喂蠈未慰尉伪 未喂伪位蠀渭苇谓慰蟼, 蠈渭蠅蟼 伪谓伪位蠉蔚喂 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 蟿畏 蠁蠉蟽畏 魏伪喂 蠂伪蟻委味蔚喂 伪蟺位蠈蠂蔚蟻伪 未喂伪谓慰畏蟿喂魏萎 蔚谓苇蟻纬蔚喂伪 魏伪喂 尾伪蟽伪谓喂蟽蟿喂魏慰蠉蟼 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰蠀蟼 魏伪蟿伪谓蠈畏蟽畏蟼 蟿畏蟼 蔚尉慰渭慰位蠈纬畏蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀.
芦螚 螡伪蠀蟿委伪禄 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿慰 蟺蟻蠋蟿慰 苇蟻纬慰 蟿慰蠀 危伪蟻蟿蟻 蟺慰蠀 未喂伪尾维味蠅 魏伪喂 谓慰渭委味蠅 蟺蠅蟼 胃伪 蔚委谓伪喂 魏伪喂 蟿慰 蟿蔚位蔚蠀蟿伪委慰.
螆谓喂蠅蟽伪 蟿蟻慰渭蔚蟻萎 蟺委蔚蟽畏, 胃位委蠄畏 魏伪喂 伪蟺苇蟻伪谓蟿畏 蠄蠀蠂慰位慰纬喂魏萎 蟺委蔚蟽畏 蟽蔚 尾伪胃渭蠈 蠁胃慰蟻维蟼. 螠喂伪 胃畏位喂维 蟽蟿慰 位伪喂渭蠈 蟺慰蠀 苇蟽蠁喂纬纬蔚 蟽蟿伪未喂伪魏维 渭苇蠂蟻喂 谓伪 纬委谓蔚喂 伪蠁蠈蟻畏蟿伪 蟺谓喂纬畏蟻萎... 魏伪喂 渭委伪 伪委蟽胃畏蟽畏 谓伪蠀蟿委伪蟼 ...
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏.
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼.
December 3, 2017
"I was just thinking," I tell him, laughing, "that here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing."
I smile at him. I would like this smile to reveal all that he is trying to hide from himself.
It鈥檚 really hard for me to rate this book, to write a review or even form an opinion. I kinda feel I鈥檓 not old, educated or wise enough to appreciate it fully, and this is one of those books I would be highly interested to re-read at the different time-periods in my life, to see the effect it has on me over time. Reading was a unique experience, and definitely, mind-blowing read that left me in awe. At times the Sartre鈥檚 writing reminded me of and , and I was delighted to find out that Rilke's Notebooks of Malte, one of my favorite books, was one of the main influences for Nausea. is painfully honest in character of Roquentin, a lost introverted man in his thirties, tormented by loneliness, anguish, doubt and above all, Nausea, the pain of existing. The book starts with notes in his diary, and in the first few words, we see that he is the real truth seeker, the kind that values truth more than conformity, the kind that would rather suffer and know the truth than live in a lie in the painless state of existing.
The best thing would be to write down events from day to day. Keep a diary to see clearly鈥攍et none of the nuances or small happenings escape even though they might seem to mean nothing. And above all, classify them. I must tell how I see this table, this street, the people, my packet of tobacco, since those are the things which have changed. I must determine the exact extent and nature of this change.
This is what I have to avoid, I must not put in strangeness where there is none. I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you're always looking for something.
We soon learn about his loneliness, and he can鈥檛 really find meaning, identity in relation to other human beings, or in contributing to the society, things that regular human being finds shelter and comfort running from their own feelings of meaningless and the absurdity of life.
I live alone, entirely alone. I never speak to anyone, never; I receive nothing, I give nothing.
I was neither father nor grandfather, not even a husband. I did not have a vote, I hardly paid any taxes: I could not boast of being a taxpayer, an elector, nor even of having the humble right to honour which twenty years of obedience confers on an employee. My existence began to worry me seriously.
I don't want any communion of souls, I haven't fallen so low.
I particularly liked Sartre鈥檚 witty, honest and satirical comments on man-woman romantic relationships, and love and sexuality are underlying themes in the novel, buried under existentialism and absurdism. It can be the defense mechanism of intellectualization and rationalization of love, but I laughed out loud, as well in some other parts of the novel, in admiration that someone verbalized the part of the truth that we all subconsciously know, but refuse to talk or think about.
I don't listen to them any more: they annoy me. They're going to sleep together. They know it. Each one knows that the other knows it. But since they are young, chaste and decent, since each one wants to keep his self-respect and that of the other, since love is a great poetic thing which you must not frighten away, several times a week they go to dances and restaurants, offering the spectacle of their ritual, mechanical dances. . .
After all, you have to kill time. They are young and well built, they have enough to last them another thirty years. So they're in no hurry, they delay and they are not wrong. Once they have slept together they will have to find something else to veil the enormous absurdity of their existence. Still ... is it absolutely necessary to lie?
Odd feelings Roquentin experiences in the nauseated consciousness are nothing more than confrontation with bare existence and nothingness. He displays obvious cynical mockery and even disgust for himself and for the world, but in the same way, under the feeling of emptiness and deep philosophical debates he has with himself, there is profound interest and concern for the fate of the individual person and longing for meaning. His search for meaning is turned within himself, as he attempts to find meaning in his own inner life and experience. In the void of his inner experiences, he loses track of time, space and himself in the processes of derealization and depersonalization in archaic visions. But he learns that neither the experience of the outer world or contemplative deep inner life can鈥檛 give meaning to existence. He tries to give life meaning by writing a book, and reviving old passion with his longtime lover, but is faced with ultimate failure each time. Reconciliation is found in the acceptance of contingency and absurd, concepts in which he finally feels liberated but not fulfilled nor happy.
And without formulating anything clearly, I understood that I had found the key to Existence, the key to my Nauseas, to my own life. In fact, all that I could grasp beyond that returns to this fundamental absurdity. Absurdity: another word; I struggle against words; down there I touched the thing. But I wanted to fix the absolute character of this absurdity here. A movement, an event in the tiny coloured world of men is only relatively absurd: by relation to the accompanying circumstances.
The essential thing is contingency. I mean that one cannot define existence as necessity. To exist is simply to be there; those who exist let themselves be encountered, but you can never deduce anything from them. I believe there are people who have understood this. Only they tried to overcome this contingency by inventing a necessary, causal being. But no necessary being can explain existence: contingency is not a delusion, a probability which can be dissipated; it is the absolute, consequently, the perfect free gift.
I am free: there is absolutely no more reason for living, all the ones I have tried have given way and I can't imagine any more of them. I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.
I am bored, that's all. From time to time I yawn so widely that tears roll down my cheek. It is a profound boredom, profound, the profound heart of existence, the very matter I am made of.
Expressed absolute boredom and emptiness, and will to sacrifice comfort for freedom reminded me of Madame Bovary, a character that I could heavily relate when I read that books years ago. I could definitely relate to Roquentin, and I think he is a level of epic character, like Dostoevsky characters, that live inside in each one of us. With Nausea, I had a liberating feeling when you read a book for the first time and see someone talk about the parts of you that you never shared with anyone because you thought no one would understand. Even thought Rouqentin had shattering feelings of loneliness in the chaos of existence, I think he made a lot of people like me feel less alone, and I applaud Sartre for that. The more I think about Nause the more I see what a masterpiece of literature it is. Hope to return to this book, and see years from now what are the parts that stuck with me the most, because I鈥檓 sure there will be many.
I smile at him. I would like this smile to reveal all that he is trying to hide from himself.
It鈥檚 really hard for me to rate this book, to write a review or even form an opinion. I kinda feel I鈥檓 not old, educated or wise enough to appreciate it fully, and this is one of those books I would be highly interested to re-read at the different time-periods in my life, to see the effect it has on me over time. Reading was a unique experience, and definitely, mind-blowing read that left me in awe. At times the Sartre鈥檚 writing reminded me of and , and I was delighted to find out that Rilke's Notebooks of Malte, one of my favorite books, was one of the main influences for Nausea. is painfully honest in character of Roquentin, a lost introverted man in his thirties, tormented by loneliness, anguish, doubt and above all, Nausea, the pain of existing. The book starts with notes in his diary, and in the first few words, we see that he is the real truth seeker, the kind that values truth more than conformity, the kind that would rather suffer and know the truth than live in a lie in the painless state of existing.
The best thing would be to write down events from day to day. Keep a diary to see clearly鈥攍et none of the nuances or small happenings escape even though they might seem to mean nothing. And above all, classify them. I must tell how I see this table, this street, the people, my packet of tobacco, since those are the things which have changed. I must determine the exact extent and nature of this change.
This is what I have to avoid, I must not put in strangeness where there is none. I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you're always looking for something.
We soon learn about his loneliness, and he can鈥檛 really find meaning, identity in relation to other human beings, or in contributing to the society, things that regular human being finds shelter and comfort running from their own feelings of meaningless and the absurdity of life.
I live alone, entirely alone. I never speak to anyone, never; I receive nothing, I give nothing.
I was neither father nor grandfather, not even a husband. I did not have a vote, I hardly paid any taxes: I could not boast of being a taxpayer, an elector, nor even of having the humble right to honour which twenty years of obedience confers on an employee. My existence began to worry me seriously.
I don't want any communion of souls, I haven't fallen so low.
I particularly liked Sartre鈥檚 witty, honest and satirical comments on man-woman romantic relationships, and love and sexuality are underlying themes in the novel, buried under existentialism and absurdism. It can be the defense mechanism of intellectualization and rationalization of love, but I laughed out loud, as well in some other parts of the novel, in admiration that someone verbalized the part of the truth that we all subconsciously know, but refuse to talk or think about.
I don't listen to them any more: they annoy me. They're going to sleep together. They know it. Each one knows that the other knows it. But since they are young, chaste and decent, since each one wants to keep his self-respect and that of the other, since love is a great poetic thing which you must not frighten away, several times a week they go to dances and restaurants, offering the spectacle of their ritual, mechanical dances. . .
After all, you have to kill time. They are young and well built, they have enough to last them another thirty years. So they're in no hurry, they delay and they are not wrong. Once they have slept together they will have to find something else to veil the enormous absurdity of their existence. Still ... is it absolutely necessary to lie?
Odd feelings Roquentin experiences in the nauseated consciousness are nothing more than confrontation with bare existence and nothingness. He displays obvious cynical mockery and even disgust for himself and for the world, but in the same way, under the feeling of emptiness and deep philosophical debates he has with himself, there is profound interest and concern for the fate of the individual person and longing for meaning. His search for meaning is turned within himself, as he attempts to find meaning in his own inner life and experience. In the void of his inner experiences, he loses track of time, space and himself in the processes of derealization and depersonalization in archaic visions. But he learns that neither the experience of the outer world or contemplative deep inner life can鈥檛 give meaning to existence. He tries to give life meaning by writing a book, and reviving old passion with his longtime lover, but is faced with ultimate failure each time. Reconciliation is found in the acceptance of contingency and absurd, concepts in which he finally feels liberated but not fulfilled nor happy.
And without formulating anything clearly, I understood that I had found the key to Existence, the key to my Nauseas, to my own life. In fact, all that I could grasp beyond that returns to this fundamental absurdity. Absurdity: another word; I struggle against words; down there I touched the thing. But I wanted to fix the absolute character of this absurdity here. A movement, an event in the tiny coloured world of men is only relatively absurd: by relation to the accompanying circumstances.
The essential thing is contingency. I mean that one cannot define existence as necessity. To exist is simply to be there; those who exist let themselves be encountered, but you can never deduce anything from them. I believe there are people who have understood this. Only they tried to overcome this contingency by inventing a necessary, causal being. But no necessary being can explain existence: contingency is not a delusion, a probability which can be dissipated; it is the absolute, consequently, the perfect free gift.
I am free: there is absolutely no more reason for living, all the ones I have tried have given way and I can't imagine any more of them. I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.
I am bored, that's all. From time to time I yawn so widely that tears roll down my cheek. It is a profound boredom, profound, the profound heart of existence, the very matter I am made of.
Expressed absolute boredom and emptiness, and will to sacrifice comfort for freedom reminded me of Madame Bovary, a character that I could heavily relate when I read that books years ago. I could definitely relate to Roquentin, and I think he is a level of epic character, like Dostoevsky characters, that live inside in each one of us. With Nausea, I had a liberating feeling when you read a book for the first time and see someone talk about the parts of you that you never shared with anyone because you thought no one would understand. Even thought Rouqentin had shattering feelings of loneliness in the chaos of existence, I think he made a lot of people like me feel less alone, and I applaud Sartre for that. The more I think about Nause the more I see what a masterpiece of literature it is. Hope to return to this book, and see years from now what are the parts that stuck with me the most, because I鈥檓 sure there will be many.
May 21, 2019
Sartre is an author I don't like very much. He's also one of the few authors I almost always agree with, unfortunately. If that is not enough to cause some nausea, one can add a bit of existential anxiety and here we go: by hitting Sartre in the face with Camus' idea of the absurdity of life, I have confirmed Sartre's bleak outlook on humanity as well. If I had liked it, I would have solved the Catch 22 of life!
Sartre is hard to stomach because he doesn't add any decoration to the account of human misery. He just puts it out there.
Or wait - there is ornament.
In the form of black symbols on white paper, he serves treatment for the illness: to write is to exist!
So as a reader, I have no choice but to write a review, to prove my existence in time and space, or maybe in letters and ink? Code in cloud?
I read, therefore I am. It doesn't mean I have to like it in the sense of giving pleasure!
Sartre is hard to stomach because he doesn't add any decoration to the account of human misery. He just puts it out there.
Or wait - there is ornament.
In the form of black symbols on white paper, he serves treatment for the illness: to write is to exist!
So as a reader, I have no choice but to write a review, to prove my existence in time and space, or maybe in letters and ink? Code in cloud?
I read, therefore I am. It doesn't mean I have to like it in the sense of giving pleasure!
January 31, 2023
"Entonces, me dio la N谩usea: me dej茅 caer en el asiento. Ni siquiera sab铆a d贸nde estaba; ve铆a girar lentamente los colores a mi alrededor; ten铆a ganas de vomitar. Y desde entonces la N谩usea no me ha abandonado, me posee."
Escrita en 1946, "La n谩usea" es la primera novela del fil贸sofo y escritor franc茅s Jean-Paul Sartre y marca el inicio de ese movimiento tan peculiar de la literatura que se llam贸 "Existencialismo" y que en la literatura ser铆a continuado y grabado a fuego por Albert Camus.
Durante toda la lectura de la novela, nos encontraremos con el relato en primera persona de Antoine Roquentin, un muchacho de unos treinta a帽os que vive en la imaginaria ciudad de Bouville.
Ha estado en Indochina y desde hace un tiempo deambula por las calles de su pueblo, entre su casa y la biblioteca del lugar en la que escribe una biograf铆a sobre un tal Marqu茅s de Rollebon y eso es todo lo que sabemos de 茅l.
Lo restante se traduce en una amplia serie de reflexiones y pensamientos que invaden y controlan su mente y no lo sueltan m谩s. La "N谩usea", como 茅l decide denominarlos.
He podido encontrar ciertos puntos de contacto entre esta novela y otras que he le铆do. Aunque es una novela extremadamente peculiar uno siempre puede trazar puentes con otras historias.
"La n谩usea" me recuerda, por ejemplo a la segunda parte de las "Memorias del subsuelo" de Fi贸dor Dostoievski, llamada "A prop贸sito de la nevasca", puntualmente por la relaci贸n del narrador con los otros dos personajes secundarios en esta novela: el "Autodidacto", un muchacho que trabaja en la biblioteca y Anny, una mujer con quien hace el amor ocasionalmente.
Por otro lado, los paseos del narrador me sugieren otras dos novelas de introspecci贸n y an谩lisis: "Los laureles cortados" de 脡douard Dujardin y de "El paseo" de Robert Walser.
Las similitudes del discurso, por momentos inexpugnable de Roquentin me recordaron a "El innombrable" de Samuel Beckett y ciertas frases de marcado absurdo me trajeron una fuerte reminiscencia al Franz Kafka m谩s s贸rdido: "Estoy solo, pero camino como un ej茅rcito que irrumpiera en la ciudad."
Adentrado el libro, fluye el mon贸logo interior joyceano. Todo recurso literario es v谩lido para Sartre y de este modo sustenta el discurso de Roquentin.
Como marco previamente, la econom铆a de personajes queda reducida a Roquentin y ocasionalmente a sus relaciones (y desconexiones) con el Autodidacto y con Anny, pero nada m谩s. El resto del texto que leemos, est谩 dentro de su cabeza, transform谩ndonos a nosotros los lectores en una especie de afortunados espectadores.
Cuando no est谩 intentando desentra帽ar las profundidades de su mente, trabaja escribiendo la bibliograf铆a de Rollebon. Para qui茅n, no se sabe.
Sus reflexiones y pensamientos son definitivamente las de un observador. Un observador muy detallista. En sus paseos, Roquentin remarca constantemente lo absurdo que es estar vivo, sin ninguna direcci贸n fija. Al menos, 茅l cree que la vida es eso.
Son pensamientos ap谩ticos, buc贸licos, descorazonados: "Para m铆 no hay lunes ni domingos; hay d铆as que se empujan en desorden, y de pronto, rel谩mpagos como este."
Intentando descifrar el objetivo de su introspecci贸n, creo que en su caso no se trata de la existencia sino de la "existencialidad", si es que se puede utilizar esa palabra: "Todo lo que existe nace sin raz贸n, se prolonga por debilidad y muere por casualidad... la existencia es un lleno que el hombre no puede abandonar."
Su constante visi贸n negativa y pesimista lo ahoga: "Cuando uno vive, no sucede nada.". Este tipo de frases justifican su apat铆a.
Su propia existencia te帽ida de interrogantes kafkianos lo asalta por detr谩s y declara "Nada. He existido."
Su concepci贸n es directamente opuesta al principio cartesiano: "Soy, existo, pienso, luego soy; soy porque pienso, 驴por qu茅 pienso? No quiero pensar m谩s, soy porque pienso que no quiero ser, pienso que...porque..."
En su interacci贸n con los dem谩s personajes, de alg煤n modo cree poder hacer extensivo su estado de 谩nimo a ellos: "No es simpat铆a lo que hay entre nosotros; somos parecidos, eso es todo. Est谩 solo como yo, pero m谩s hundido en la soledad ha de esperar su N谩usea o algo por el estilo. Entonces, ahora hay gente que me reconoce y piensa: "Este es de los nuestros".
Cerca del fin, Roquentin dice: "Desear铆a tanto abandonarme, olvidarme, dormir. Pero no puedo, me sofoco: la existencia me penetra por todas partes, por los ojos, por la nariz, por la boca... Y de golpe, de un solo golpe el velo se desgarra, he comprendido, he visto."
Se nota claramente el agotamiento mental; una especie de oscuro laberinto que lo posesiona, y lo absorbe, y los interrogantes que surgen al principio de la novela, ya no lo soltar谩n ni a 茅l ni a el lector en el final.
Roquentin cree haber encontrado la explicaci贸n y el significado para 茅l y para nosotros sobre lo que genera en 茅l la N谩usea.
Pero... 驴es realmente eso la N谩usea?
Escrita en 1946, "La n谩usea" es la primera novela del fil贸sofo y escritor franc茅s Jean-Paul Sartre y marca el inicio de ese movimiento tan peculiar de la literatura que se llam贸 "Existencialismo" y que en la literatura ser铆a continuado y grabado a fuego por Albert Camus.
Durante toda la lectura de la novela, nos encontraremos con el relato en primera persona de Antoine Roquentin, un muchacho de unos treinta a帽os que vive en la imaginaria ciudad de Bouville.
Ha estado en Indochina y desde hace un tiempo deambula por las calles de su pueblo, entre su casa y la biblioteca del lugar en la que escribe una biograf铆a sobre un tal Marqu茅s de Rollebon y eso es todo lo que sabemos de 茅l.
Lo restante se traduce en una amplia serie de reflexiones y pensamientos que invaden y controlan su mente y no lo sueltan m谩s. La "N谩usea", como 茅l decide denominarlos.
He podido encontrar ciertos puntos de contacto entre esta novela y otras que he le铆do. Aunque es una novela extremadamente peculiar uno siempre puede trazar puentes con otras historias.
"La n谩usea" me recuerda, por ejemplo a la segunda parte de las "Memorias del subsuelo" de Fi贸dor Dostoievski, llamada "A prop贸sito de la nevasca", puntualmente por la relaci贸n del narrador con los otros dos personajes secundarios en esta novela: el "Autodidacto", un muchacho que trabaja en la biblioteca y Anny, una mujer con quien hace el amor ocasionalmente.
Por otro lado, los paseos del narrador me sugieren otras dos novelas de introspecci贸n y an谩lisis: "Los laureles cortados" de 脡douard Dujardin y de "El paseo" de Robert Walser.
Las similitudes del discurso, por momentos inexpugnable de Roquentin me recordaron a "El innombrable" de Samuel Beckett y ciertas frases de marcado absurdo me trajeron una fuerte reminiscencia al Franz Kafka m谩s s贸rdido: "Estoy solo, pero camino como un ej茅rcito que irrumpiera en la ciudad."
Adentrado el libro, fluye el mon贸logo interior joyceano. Todo recurso literario es v谩lido para Sartre y de este modo sustenta el discurso de Roquentin.
Como marco previamente, la econom铆a de personajes queda reducida a Roquentin y ocasionalmente a sus relaciones (y desconexiones) con el Autodidacto y con Anny, pero nada m谩s. El resto del texto que leemos, est谩 dentro de su cabeza, transform谩ndonos a nosotros los lectores en una especie de afortunados espectadores.
Cuando no est谩 intentando desentra帽ar las profundidades de su mente, trabaja escribiendo la bibliograf铆a de Rollebon. Para qui茅n, no se sabe.
Sus reflexiones y pensamientos son definitivamente las de un observador. Un observador muy detallista. En sus paseos, Roquentin remarca constantemente lo absurdo que es estar vivo, sin ninguna direcci贸n fija. Al menos, 茅l cree que la vida es eso.
Son pensamientos ap谩ticos, buc贸licos, descorazonados: "Para m铆 no hay lunes ni domingos; hay d铆as que se empujan en desorden, y de pronto, rel谩mpagos como este."
Intentando descifrar el objetivo de su introspecci贸n, creo que en su caso no se trata de la existencia sino de la "existencialidad", si es que se puede utilizar esa palabra: "Todo lo que existe nace sin raz贸n, se prolonga por debilidad y muere por casualidad... la existencia es un lleno que el hombre no puede abandonar."
Su constante visi贸n negativa y pesimista lo ahoga: "Cuando uno vive, no sucede nada.". Este tipo de frases justifican su apat铆a.
Su propia existencia te帽ida de interrogantes kafkianos lo asalta por detr谩s y declara "Nada. He existido."
Su concepci贸n es directamente opuesta al principio cartesiano: "Soy, existo, pienso, luego soy; soy porque pienso, 驴por qu茅 pienso? No quiero pensar m谩s, soy porque pienso que no quiero ser, pienso que...porque..."
En su interacci贸n con los dem谩s personajes, de alg煤n modo cree poder hacer extensivo su estado de 谩nimo a ellos: "No es simpat铆a lo que hay entre nosotros; somos parecidos, eso es todo. Est谩 solo como yo, pero m谩s hundido en la soledad ha de esperar su N谩usea o algo por el estilo. Entonces, ahora hay gente que me reconoce y piensa: "Este es de los nuestros".
Cerca del fin, Roquentin dice: "Desear铆a tanto abandonarme, olvidarme, dormir. Pero no puedo, me sofoco: la existencia me penetra por todas partes, por los ojos, por la nariz, por la boca... Y de golpe, de un solo golpe el velo se desgarra, he comprendido, he visto."
Se nota claramente el agotamiento mental; una especie de oscuro laberinto que lo posesiona, y lo absorbe, y los interrogantes que surgen al principio de la novela, ya no lo soltar谩n ni a 茅l ni a el lector en el final.
Roquentin cree haber encontrado la explicaci贸n y el significado para 茅l y para nosotros sobre lo que genera en 茅l la N谩usea.
Pero... 驴es realmente eso la N谩usea?
March 14, 2023
3.8 鉀р洤鉀р洤
"I should like to understand myself properly before it is too late."
A deep thinking mind can be a dangerous yet fascinating playground. I know that because i often find myself sliding and swinging at that playground. As an artist and photographer, digging deep into the essence of my being is also an inseparable part of my creative process and probably the most difficult one. Self reflection on one's own existence can feel overwhelming,听 yet the outcome might bring some purification. This purification rarely comes without the taste of the nausea.
Jean-paul Sartre's Nausea is a stream of consciousness, a portrait of melancholy and solitude, an exploration of existentialism, meaning, feelings, and freedom. Yeah, welcome to a godless world where meaning doesn't exist, and it is in your responsibility to create it and add it to your life. According to Sartre, man is condemned to be free, but this freedom can only exist if we create our own meaning.听
"Existence is not something which lets itself be thought of from a distance; it must invade you suddenly, master you, weigh heavily on your heart like a great motionless beast - or else there is nothing at all".
So, if you find yourself hungry today, this book is some good, yet a bit of hard-to-digest food for thought. I wasn't fully satisfied after this meal. However, I take comfort knowing I provide my nausea with a daily dose of cure. Sometimes I forget.
"I should like to understand myself properly before it is too late."
A deep thinking mind can be a dangerous yet fascinating playground. I know that because i often find myself sliding and swinging at that playground. As an artist and photographer, digging deep into the essence of my being is also an inseparable part of my creative process and probably the most difficult one. Self reflection on one's own existence can feel overwhelming,听 yet the outcome might bring some purification. This purification rarely comes without the taste of the nausea.
Jean-paul Sartre's Nausea is a stream of consciousness, a portrait of melancholy and solitude, an exploration of existentialism, meaning, feelings, and freedom. Yeah, welcome to a godless world where meaning doesn't exist, and it is in your responsibility to create it and add it to your life. According to Sartre, man is condemned to be free, but this freedom can only exist if we create our own meaning.听
"Existence is not something which lets itself be thought of from a distance; it must invade you suddenly, master you, weigh heavily on your heart like a great motionless beast - or else there is nothing at all".
So, if you find yourself hungry today, this book is some good, yet a bit of hard-to-digest food for thought. I wasn't fully satisfied after this meal. However, I take comfort knowing I provide my nausea with a daily dose of cure. Sometimes I forget.
April 28, 2024
Nausea brings to us a man's struggle to come to terms with his own existence. Antoine Roquentin is disgusted with his everyday existence. Being without family, friends, or a vocation, his solitary existence gives him plenty of time to reflect on the meaning of his existence. What he finds in answer to his search is only nothingness. He ponders on the actions of humans, including himself, who are ignorant of this real nature of the world, and finds these actions absurd. This absurdity that surrounds him, almost drowning him, makes him nauseous.
The plotless story is rather a study of Antoine's thoughts and conducts as he struggles to make a meaningful existence. He finds his whole life in utter disarray. "For me, there is neither Monday nor Sunday: there are days which pass in disorder, and then, sudden lightning like this one". The "sudden lightning" is the moment of happiness when he feels one with nature, but he cannot help falling into despair again when he deals with the world around him. He doesn't understand why he is here, for what purpose. "I hadn't the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant, or a microbe. My life put out feelers towards small pleasures in every direction".
In his search to find the true meaning of existence, he first discovers that most of the existences are relative. That is to say, most of the existences are formed in relation to some other person, object, concept, or the past. "I was neither father nor grandfather, not even a husband. I did not have a vote, I hardly paid any taxes: I could not boast of being a taxpayer, an elector, nor even of having the humble right to honour which twenty years of obedience confers on an employee. My existence began to worry me seriously." This worry intensifies, Antoine's nausea. He realizes that the task he has set for himself - to write a book on the history of the Marquis de Rollobon - is his way of desperately anchoring his existence to something, even if it's a dead person from the past. Disgusted, he abandons this task and tries another avenue to which he could anchor his existence. He meets his former girlfriend, Anny, and seeks through her to steady his sinking ship. But this effort too is frustrated, and he finds himself drifting further and further into turbulent waters. Antoine feels completely lost. Then, all of a sudden, he is enlightened. "The true nature of the present revealed itself: it was what exists, and all that was not present did not exist. Not in things, not even in my thoughts." Antoine finds that the true existence is what exists at present, at this present moment, divorced from the past. And he also realizes that "things are divorced from their names" and that all these things are only "strange images" that "represented a multitude of things". They are "not real things", but "things which looked like them. Wooden objects which looked like chairs, shoes, other objects which looked like plants." Sartre believed that "existence preceded essence" and that the "essence" or rather the "characteristics" of objects are just "facades" to hide the unexplainable nature of existence. So, things are only objects, and they exist without us giving them any "characteristic". And finally, he understands, what he is. "And just what is Antoine Roquentin? An abstraction. A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness. Antoine Roquentin...and suddenly the "I" pales, pales, and fades out".
With this realization comes the understanding that each of us is responsible for creating a purpose or meaning for ourselves. And for Antoine, there is only one solution to save himself and cure him of his nausea. That is to create an artistic product, not of the past as he tried to do with Marquis de Rollobon, but of the present, and to pour his whole self into it and solidify his existence through it. Existentialists believed that artistic creation is an important aspect of existence. So we can understand why Sartre presented the simple solution of artistic creation as the way of understanding oneself thus curing Antoine Roquentin's nausea.
Nausea is a classic existentialist novel. It expounds on the vital aspects of existentialism and paints a good portrait of Sartre's beliefs on existence. It is an important philosophical work and probably one of the best works that explain existentialism. But reading it is quite another matter. It needs a hundred percent of concentration and a good percentage of brainpower to understand what Sartre was driving at. It is not easy to fish out the essentials from the multitude of ideas that Sartre presents in this work. It is a profound work, and I by no means claim to have understood it all. Yet, though it was quite a difficult experience, I'm glad to have read what is considered the fictional masterpiece of Sartre. " I stand by one thing, which is Nausea. . . . It鈥檚 the best of what I鈥檝e done" This is how Sartre felt of his Nausea. And who are we to contradict the author?
The plotless story is rather a study of Antoine's thoughts and conducts as he struggles to make a meaningful existence. He finds his whole life in utter disarray. "For me, there is neither Monday nor Sunday: there are days which pass in disorder, and then, sudden lightning like this one". The "sudden lightning" is the moment of happiness when he feels one with nature, but he cannot help falling into despair again when he deals with the world around him. He doesn't understand why he is here, for what purpose. "I hadn't the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant, or a microbe. My life put out feelers towards small pleasures in every direction".
In his search to find the true meaning of existence, he first discovers that most of the existences are relative. That is to say, most of the existences are formed in relation to some other person, object, concept, or the past. "I was neither father nor grandfather, not even a husband. I did not have a vote, I hardly paid any taxes: I could not boast of being a taxpayer, an elector, nor even of having the humble right to honour which twenty years of obedience confers on an employee. My existence began to worry me seriously." This worry intensifies, Antoine's nausea. He realizes that the task he has set for himself - to write a book on the history of the Marquis de Rollobon - is his way of desperately anchoring his existence to something, even if it's a dead person from the past. Disgusted, he abandons this task and tries another avenue to which he could anchor his existence. He meets his former girlfriend, Anny, and seeks through her to steady his sinking ship. But this effort too is frustrated, and he finds himself drifting further and further into turbulent waters. Antoine feels completely lost. Then, all of a sudden, he is enlightened. "The true nature of the present revealed itself: it was what exists, and all that was not present did not exist. Not in things, not even in my thoughts." Antoine finds that the true existence is what exists at present, at this present moment, divorced from the past. And he also realizes that "things are divorced from their names" and that all these things are only "strange images" that "represented a multitude of things". They are "not real things", but "things which looked like them. Wooden objects which looked like chairs, shoes, other objects which looked like plants." Sartre believed that "existence preceded essence" and that the "essence" or rather the "characteristics" of objects are just "facades" to hide the unexplainable nature of existence. So, things are only objects, and they exist without us giving them any "characteristic". And finally, he understands, what he is. "And just what is Antoine Roquentin? An abstraction. A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness. Antoine Roquentin...and suddenly the "I" pales, pales, and fades out".
With this realization comes the understanding that each of us is responsible for creating a purpose or meaning for ourselves. And for Antoine, there is only one solution to save himself and cure him of his nausea. That is to create an artistic product, not of the past as he tried to do with Marquis de Rollobon, but of the present, and to pour his whole self into it and solidify his existence through it. Existentialists believed that artistic creation is an important aspect of existence. So we can understand why Sartre presented the simple solution of artistic creation as the way of understanding oneself thus curing Antoine Roquentin's nausea.
Nausea is a classic existentialist novel. It expounds on the vital aspects of existentialism and paints a good portrait of Sartre's beliefs on existence. It is an important philosophical work and probably one of the best works that explain existentialism. But reading it is quite another matter. It needs a hundred percent of concentration and a good percentage of brainpower to understand what Sartre was driving at. It is not easy to fish out the essentials from the multitude of ideas that Sartre presents in this work. It is a profound work, and I by no means claim to have understood it all. Yet, though it was quite a difficult experience, I'm glad to have read what is considered the fictional masterpiece of Sartre. " I stand by one thing, which is Nausea. . . . It鈥檚 the best of what I鈥檝e done" This is how Sartre felt of his Nausea. And who are we to contradict the author?
April 18, 2023
脦苍tr-un roman modic (ca valoare), Jean-Paul Sartre a introdus o tem膬 (sc卯rba de via葲膬, dezgustul existen葲ial) care a avut un ecou uria葯. Tema se reg膬se葯te la Ionesco (脦苍蝉颈苍驳耻谤补迟耻濒), Le Cl茅zio (Procesul verbal), Houellebecq (Extinderea domeniului luptei). Rezult膬 paradoxul c膬 importan葲a romanului lui Sartre a fost mai mare dec卯t valoarea lui pur estetic膬.
***
脦苍 biblioteca public膬 din ora葯ul Bouville, Antoine Roquentin (protagonistul romanului) 卯nt卯lne葯te un personaj bizar: Autodidactul. Este un individ silitor 葯i 卯nd卯rjit, un ghem de perseveren葲膬. Are un program vast: vrea s膬 citeasc膬 metodic absolut tot. F膬r膬 s膬 sar膬 nici un autor, nici o carte. 脦苍cepe cu litera A 葯i sper膬 c膬, 卯ntr-o bun膬 zi, va ajunge la Z. Vrea, a葯adar, s膬 acopere 卯ntreaga cunoa葯tere omeneasc膬. Exhaustiv. F膬r膬 rest...
鈥濪intr-o str膬fulgerare am 卯n葲eles metoda Autodidactului: se instruie葯te 卯n ordine alfabetic膬. 脦l contemplu cu un fel de admira葲ie. C卯t膬 voin葲膬 卯i trebuie ca s膬 realizeze 卯ncetul cu 卯ncetul, cu 卯nc膬p膬葲卯nare, un proiect at卯t de vast? 脦苍tr-o zi, acum 葯apte ani (mi-a m膬rturisit c膬 studiaz膬 de 葯apte ani), a intrat cu mare pomp膬 卯n aceast膬 sal膬. A parcurs cu privirea nenum膬ratele c膬r葲i care acoper膬 pere葲ii 葯i probabil a spus, asemenea lui Rastignac: '脦苍tre noi doi acum, Cunoa葯tere omeneasc膬!' S-a dus apoi s膬 ia prima carte din primul raft de la extrema dreapt膬; a deschis-o la prima pagin膬 cu un sentiment de respect 葯i de team膬, unit cu o hot膬r卯re de neclintit. Ast膬zi se afl膬 la L. K, dup膬 J. L, dup膬 K. A trecut deodat膬 de la studiul coleopterelor la cel al teoriei cuantelor, de la o lucrare despre Tamerlan la un pamflet catolic 卯mpotriva darwinismului: nici o clip膬 n-a fost derutat. A citit tot. A 卯nmagazinat 卯n capul lui jum膬tate din ce se 葯tie despre partenogenez膬, jum膬tate din argumentele 卯mpotriva vivisec葲iei. 脦苍 urma lui, 卯naintea lui, e un univers. 葮i se apropie ziua c卯nd va spune, 卯nchiz卯nd ultimul volum din ultimul raft de la extrema st卯ng膬: '葮i acum?'...鈥� (pp.42-43).
Romanul e prea arid 葯i, la recitire, dezam膬ge葯te. Albert Camus avea dreptate: 鈥濸rea mult膬 teorie stric膬!鈥� Un exemplu: 鈥濫xisten葲ii pot fi 卯nt卯lni葲i, dar nu pot fi dedu葯i鈥�.
P. S. 脦苍 Ziarul de Ia葯i, am publicat acum 15 ani o recenzie mai am膬nun葲it膬:
***
脦苍 biblioteca public膬 din ora葯ul Bouville, Antoine Roquentin (protagonistul romanului) 卯nt卯lne葯te un personaj bizar: Autodidactul. Este un individ silitor 葯i 卯nd卯rjit, un ghem de perseveren葲膬. Are un program vast: vrea s膬 citeasc膬 metodic absolut tot. F膬r膬 s膬 sar膬 nici un autor, nici o carte. 脦苍cepe cu litera A 葯i sper膬 c膬, 卯ntr-o bun膬 zi, va ajunge la Z. Vrea, a葯adar, s膬 acopere 卯ntreaga cunoa葯tere omeneasc膬. Exhaustiv. F膬r膬 rest...
鈥濪intr-o str膬fulgerare am 卯n葲eles metoda Autodidactului: se instruie葯te 卯n ordine alfabetic膬. 脦l contemplu cu un fel de admira葲ie. C卯t膬 voin葲膬 卯i trebuie ca s膬 realizeze 卯ncetul cu 卯ncetul, cu 卯nc膬p膬葲卯nare, un proiect at卯t de vast? 脦苍tr-o zi, acum 葯apte ani (mi-a m膬rturisit c膬 studiaz膬 de 葯apte ani), a intrat cu mare pomp膬 卯n aceast膬 sal膬. A parcurs cu privirea nenum膬ratele c膬r葲i care acoper膬 pere葲ii 葯i probabil a spus, asemenea lui Rastignac: '脦苍tre noi doi acum, Cunoa葯tere omeneasc膬!' S-a dus apoi s膬 ia prima carte din primul raft de la extrema dreapt膬; a deschis-o la prima pagin膬 cu un sentiment de respect 葯i de team膬, unit cu o hot膬r卯re de neclintit. Ast膬zi se afl膬 la L. K, dup膬 J. L, dup膬 K. A trecut deodat膬 de la studiul coleopterelor la cel al teoriei cuantelor, de la o lucrare despre Tamerlan la un pamflet catolic 卯mpotriva darwinismului: nici o clip膬 n-a fost derutat. A citit tot. A 卯nmagazinat 卯n capul lui jum膬tate din ce se 葯tie despre partenogenez膬, jum膬tate din argumentele 卯mpotriva vivisec葲iei. 脦苍 urma lui, 卯naintea lui, e un univers. 葮i se apropie ziua c卯nd va spune, 卯nchiz卯nd ultimul volum din ultimul raft de la extrema st卯ng膬: '葮i acum?'...鈥� (pp.42-43).
Romanul e prea arid 葯i, la recitire, dezam膬ge葯te. Albert Camus avea dreptate: 鈥濸rea mult膬 teorie stric膬!鈥� Un exemplu: 鈥濫xisten葲ii pot fi 卯nt卯lni葲i, dar nu pot fi dedu葯i鈥�.
P. S. 脦苍 Ziarul de Ia葯i, am publicat acum 15 ani o recenzie mai am膬nun葲it膬:
Shelved as 'dropped'
December 9, 2011An insufferable philosophical classic, penned in nauseating and styleless first person prose. Roquentin is an arrogant buffoon whose existential woes are trivial, arch and pathetic. No attempt to create a novel has been made, apart from using that most lazy of constructs, the diary, opening the whole work out to a meandering thought-stream of excruciating random dullness. It isn鈥檛 accessible to confused students, unless those students happen to be aesthetes on private incomes writing dull historical theses, who like lifeless tracts of flat and horrible prose and can tolerate being bashed over the head with dated postwar ideas. I think that was Sartre鈥檚 intention, anyway, I might be wrong. But I get it. Yes. OK. Thanks. Life is horrible, etc, free will is illusory, etc etc. Got it. I read up to p50. That鈥檒l do. The novel was never a useful medium for complex philosophical ideas, except perhaps Camus鈥檚 , but that was under one hundred pages, and so tolerable. Absolute tish-pock.
May 22, 2019
猸愶笍 small dick energy star
As a French person, when foreigners learn that I 'majored' in Philosophy in HS, the first name that burst out of their mouth is, you guessed it, Jean-Paul Sartre. And just to give you a quick personal history, since the dawn of time, JPS been butt of our jokes.
Synopsis: Nausea follows the strongest small-dick energy character in the world as he struggles to write his own book and is submerged by a feeling of self-doubt and eventually, existentialism. Since he feels emasculated, he also feels the need to share his sexual adventures even if it doesn't bring anything to the story.
I thought Nausea might change my opinion on this dude, it really didn't. He's still as snobbish, naggy and unconvincing as I remember, if not more. This is, I believe, my fourth JPS without counting the numerous plays I've seen, and it's probably his most outrageous work.
What astounds me is that Nausea is one of his most read book abroad, for some reason. I need help to understand why. It's really not good.
The character is another reflection of Sartre, it seems that he can't help but write books about himself... Sartre really had an ego problem that is definitely blatant in this excuse of a book. He likes to hear himself talk even if there's nothing bright about what he's saying = O.G small dick energy.
The plot, was there even one? I wouldn't know, I haven't found it and I'm really not Nancy Drew so I'm gonna bother. This book is a succession of emptiness and unsubstantial dialogues after another.
Sartre's writing is unfocused and drafty, unable to reach the so-called paradigm of intellect he represents. He's walking in a circle, unable to form coherent thoughts and come to an intellectual conclusion. This book could have easily been 5 pages long essay instead of a 25O pages long babble of nothing. We have pages and pages of dialogues between two people sitting in a caf茅 our MC doesn't even know. It makes me wonder if he was paid by the page...
It pains me to know that this is what France is known for when we have much more talented and intelligent thinkers. Nausea is a snob, boring and unintelligent 'book' I don't recommend to anyone.
On a more personal note; I want to thank my mom for making fun of me for reading JPS again. Bullying apparently runs in the family and so does JPS post-traumatic- hatred syndrome.
As a French person, when foreigners learn that I 'majored' in Philosophy in HS, the first name that burst out of their mouth is, you guessed it, Jean-Paul Sartre. And just to give you a quick personal history, since the dawn of time, JPS been butt of our jokes.
Synopsis: Nausea follows the strongest small-dick energy character in the world as he struggles to write his own book and is submerged by a feeling of self-doubt and eventually, existentialism. Since he feels emasculated, he also feels the need to share his sexual adventures even if it doesn't bring anything to the story.
I thought Nausea might change my opinion on this dude, it really didn't. He's still as snobbish, naggy and unconvincing as I remember, if not more. This is, I believe, my fourth JPS without counting the numerous plays I've seen, and it's probably his most outrageous work.
What astounds me is that Nausea is one of his most read book abroad, for some reason. I need help to understand why. It's really not good.
The character is another reflection of Sartre, it seems that he can't help but write books about himself... Sartre really had an ego problem that is definitely blatant in this excuse of a book. He likes to hear himself talk even if there's nothing bright about what he's saying = O.G small dick energy.
The plot, was there even one? I wouldn't know, I haven't found it and I'm really not Nancy Drew so I'm gonna bother. This book is a succession of emptiness and unsubstantial dialogues after another.
Sartre's writing is unfocused and drafty, unable to reach the so-called paradigm of intellect he represents. He's walking in a circle, unable to form coherent thoughts and come to an intellectual conclusion. This book could have easily been 5 pages long essay instead of a 25O pages long babble of nothing. We have pages and pages of dialogues between two people sitting in a caf茅 our MC doesn't even know. It makes me wonder if he was paid by the page...
It pains me to know that this is what France is known for when we have much more talented and intelligent thinkers. Nausea is a snob, boring and unintelligent 'book' I don't recommend to anyone.
On a more personal note; I want to thank my mom for making fun of me for reading JPS again. Bullying apparently runs in the family and so does JPS post-traumatic- hatred syndrome.
March 21, 2012
毓賳丿賲丕 賰鬲亘 爻丕鬲乇 乇賵丕賷鬲賴 丕賱丕賵賱賶 丕賱鬲賷 丕卮鬲賴乇鬲 鬲丨鬲 毓賳賵丕賳 芦丕賱睾孬賷丕賳禄貙 賵賰丕賳 賯丿 丕爻賲丕賴丕 賮賷 丕賱亘丿丕賷丞 芦鬲兀賲賱丕鬲 賮賷 丕賱氐丿賮丞禄貙 毓乇囟賴丕 毓賱賶 乇賮賷賯丞 丨賷丕鬲賴 爻賷賲賵賳 丿賵亘賵賮賵丕乇貙 丕賱鬲賷 賵噩丿鬲賴丕 賲賲賱丞 賵賱丕 鬲鬲囟賲賳 毓賳氐乇 丕賱鬲卮賵賷賯貙 兀毓丕丿 爻丕乇鬲乇 氐賷丕睾鬲賴丕 賯亘賱 丕乇爻丕賱賴丕 丕賱賶 丕賱賳丕卮乇
丕賱賮乇賳爻賷 芦睾丕賱賷賲丕乇禄貙 賱賰賳 賱噩賳丞 丕賱賯乇丕亍丞 乇賮囟鬲賴丕 賵丕毓鬲亘乇鬲賴丕 睾賷乇 匕丕鬲 卮兀賳.
賲賲丕 兀氐丕亘賴 亘丕賱廿丨亘丕胤 丕賱卮丿賷丿 賵丕賱丕賰鬲卅丕亘
丕賱丕 兀賳賴 賯乇乇 丕賱鬲氐乇賮 亘卮賰賱 毓賲賱賷 賴匕賴 丕賱賲乇丞 賲賱鬲賲爻丕 賲賳 氐丿賷賯賴貙 卮丕乇賱 丿賵賱丕賳貙 丕賱鬲賵爻胤 賱丿賶 丕賱賳丕卮乇貙 睾丕爻鬲賵賳 睾丕賱賷賲丕乇. 賵丕賯鬲乇丨 丕賱賳丕卮乇 鬲毓丿賷賱丕鬲 賵鬲睾賷賷乇丕 賱賱毓賳賵丕賳 廿賱賶 芦丕賱睾孬賷丕賳禄.
賵賴賰匕丕 馗賴乇鬲 賱賱賵噩賵丿 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱賲丐爻爻丞 賱卮賴乇丞 噩丕賳 亘賵賱 爻丕乇鬲乇貙 賮丨氐丿鬲 丕賱賳噩丕丨 丕賱噩賲丕賴賷乇賷 丕賱賲賳賯胤毓 丕賱賳馗賷乇 !
丕賱睾孬賷丕賳 賱賷爻 亘丕賱賰鬲丕亘 丕賱爻賴賱 丕賱賯乇丕亍丞 賱兀賳賴 賷丨賵賷 賮賱爻賮丞 爻丕乇鬲乇 丕賱賵噩賵丿賷丞 賵噩丕亍 匕賱賰 賲鬲賲孬賱丕 賮賷 卮禺氐賷丞 亘胤賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 丕賱爻賷丿 兀賳胤賵丕賳 , 鬲亘丿賵 丕賱賰鬲丕亘丞 賮賷 丕賱賲卅丞 丕賱兀賵賱賶 賲賲賱丞 賵毓亘孬賷丞 賵丨丿賷孬 賳賮爻 賱丕 乇丕亘胤 亘賷賳 賮賯乇丞 賵兀禺乇賶 , 鬲囟噩 亘丕賱鬲兀賲賱 賮賷 丕賱鬲賮丕氐賷賱 丕賱氐睾賷乇丞 , 丕賱鬲賮賰賷乇 丕賱匕賷 賱丕 賷鬲賵賯賮 毓賯賱 賷賰丕丿 兀賳 賷賳賮噩乇 , 鬲卮睾賱賴 丕賱兀賷丕丿賷 , 丕賱丨噩丕乇丞 丕賱賲賯匕賵賮丞 賮賷 亘乇賰丞 賲丕亍 氐賵乇丕 賮賷 丕賱爻賯賮 , 丿賵丕卅乇 氐賱亘丕賳 ,,丕賱乇丐賶 賱丕 鬲鬲賵賯賮 ,賷丿禺賱 賲賰鬲亘丞 賷鬲兀賲賱 賮賷 丕賱賱賵丨丕鬲 賷賰鬲亘 鬲賮丕氐賷賱 丕賱賵噩賵賴 賷丨丿孬賴丕 賴匕丕 丕賱鬲兀賲賱 丕賱匕賷 卮睾賱 亘胤賱 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞 兀賵氐賱賴 賱賲乇丨賱丞 賲賳 丕賱睾孬賷丕賳 ,丕賱睾孬賷丕賳 賳鬲噩 毓賳 丕賱賲賱賱 賲賳 毓亘孬賷丞 丕賱賵噩賵丿 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳賷 賷鬲賵賯毓 兀賳胤賵丕賳 兀賳 丨賱 賲卮賰賱鬲賴 賱乇亘賲丕 賷賰賲賳 賮賷 丕賱廿賱鬲賯丕亍 亘氐丿賷賯鬲賴 丌賳賷 賱賰賳 丨賷賳 賷噩丿賴丕 賱丕 賷噩丿賴丕!
賮丨丕賱賴丕 賱賲 賷賰賳 賷禺鬲賱賮 毓賳賴 賰孬賷乇丕 ,,
賷賯賵賱 爻丕乇鬲乇 賮賷 乇丕卅毓鬲賴 丕賱睾孬賷丕賳
賲丕 兀卮丿 賲丕 兀丨爻賳賷 亘毓賷丿丕 毓賳賴賲 , 賲賳 毓賱賶 賴匕賴 丕賱乇丕亘賷丞 賷禺賷賾賱 廿賱賷賾 兀賳賳賷 兀賳鬲賲賷 廿賱賶 噩賳爻 丌禺乇
廿賳賴賲 賷禺乇噩賵賳 賲賳 丕賱賲賰丕鬲亘 亘毓丿 賷賵賲 毓賲賱賴賲 , 賷賳馗乇賵賳 廿賱賶 丕賱亘賷賵鬲 賵丕賱丨丿丕卅賯 賳馗乇丞 乇丕囟賷丞
賵賷賮賰乇賵賳 亘兀賳賴丕 賲丿賷賳鬲賴賲 , 賲丿賷賳丞 亘乇噩賵丕夭賷丞 噩賲賷賱丞 , 廿賳賴賲 睾賷乇 禺丕卅賮賷賳 , 賵賴賲 賷丨爻賵賳 亘兀賳賴賲
賮賷 亘賷賵鬲賴賲 !
廿賳賴賲 賱賲 賷乇賵丕 賯胤 廿賱丕 丕賱賲丕亍 丕賱賲爻鬲兀賳爻 丕賱匕賷 賷爻賷賱 賲賳 丕賱氐賳丕亘賷乇 ,
賵廿賱丕 丕賱賳賵乇 丕賱匕賷 賷賳亘毓 賲賳 丕賱賲氐丕亘賷丨 丨賷賳 賷囟睾胤賵賳 毓賱賶 丕賱賲賮鬲丕丨 ,
賵廿賱丕 丕賱兀卮噩丕乇 丕賱賴噩賷賳丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲購爻賳丿 亘丕賱賲賳丕卮賷乇 ,
廿賳賴賲 賷乇賵賳 丕賱丿賱賷賱 賲卅丞 賲乇丞 賰賱 賷賵賲 , 毓賱賶 兀賳賾 賰賱 卮賷亍 賷鬲賲 亘氐賵乇丞 丌賱賷丞 ,
賵兀賳賾 丕賱毓丕賱賲 賷胤賷毓 賯賵丕賳賷賳 孬丕亘鬲丞 賱丕 鬲鬲睾賷乇 ,
廿賳 丕賱兀噩爻丕賲 丕賱賲鬲乇賵賰丞 賮賷 丕賱賮乇丕睾 鬲爻賯胤 噩賲賷毓丕 亘丕賱爻乇毓丞 賳賮爻賴丕 ,
賵丕賱丨丿賷賯丞 丕賱毓丕賲丞 鬲睾賱賯 賰賱 賷賵賲 賮賷 丕賱爻丕毓丞 丕賱乇丕亘毓丞 !
賵兀賳 丕賱乇氐丕氐 賷匕賵亘 毓賳丿 丕賱丿乇噩丞 335
賵 兀賳 丌禺乇 鬲乇丕賲 賷睾丕丿乇 兀賵鬲賷賱 丿賵賮賷賱 賮賷 丕賱爻丕毓丞 丕賱孬丕賱孬丞 賵丕賱毓卮乇賷賳 賵禺賲爻 丿 !
廿賳賴賲 賲胤賲卅賳賵賳 , 賰卅賷亘賵賳
賷賮賰乇賵賳 賮賷 丕賱睾丿 兀賷 亘亘爻丕胤丞 賮賷 賷賵賲 噩丿賷丿
廿賳 丕賱賲丿賳 賱丕鬲賳毓賲 廿賱丕 亘賳賴丕乇 賵丕丨丿 賷毓賵丿 賲鬲卮丕亘賴丕 賰賱 氐亘丕丨
賵賱丕 賷賮毓賱賵賳 廿賱丕 兀賳 賷賯乇毓賵丕 賱賴 丕賱兀噩乇丕爻 兀賷丕賲 丕賱兀丨丿 , 丕賱丨賲賯賶 !
廿賳賴賲 賷孬賷乇賵賳 廿卮賲卅夭丕夭賷 !
兀馗賳 兀賳 賴匕賴 丕賱賮賯乇丞 丕賱鬲賷 賰鬲亘賴丕 爻丕乇鬲乇 毓賱賶 賱爻丕賳 兀賳胤賵丕賳 鬲賱禺氐 賲丕 兀乇丕丿 爻丕乇鬲乇 兀賳 賷賯賵賱賴 賮賷 丕賱睾孬賷丕賳 ,
賵賱丕 兀馗賳 兀賳 賰賱 賲賳 賷賯乇兀 睾孬賷丕賳 爻丕乇鬲锟斤拷 爻賷鬲氐丕賱丨 賲毓賴 !
廿賳賴丕 賯乇丕亍丞 賮賷 賮賱爻賮丞 丕賱賵噩賵丿 賵賴卮丕卮丞 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳 亘毓賷賳 爻丕乇鬲乇
賵賱賷爻鬲 乇賵丕賷丞 鬲亘丨孬 賮賷賴丕 毓賳 兀丨丿丕孬
March 3, 2008
Jean-Paul Sartre's version of "Rebel Without a Cause" and like James Dean, Sartre himself became an icon. Written in the late 30's, Sartre's study of a man who analyze his feelings, bearings on a world that makes him sick. This book has so much identity to it, that it is almost a brand name for 'youth.' There is nothing better then to be caught reading this novel by a pretty girl in a coffee house. Unless it's Starbucks, and then it is just... pointless.
January 23, 2018
The thing with existentialism is that once you admit there's no meaning, you have to admit that there's no meaning, and people get freaked out about it. I don't know why. I was raised atheist and I've never thought there was any meaning and it seems okay to me; maybe it's only scary if you used to think there was a meaning and suddenly you find out there isn't one. Listen, I'll tell you the meaning of life.
1) Be nice
2) have fun
That's it.
Neither of those things occur to Antoine Roquentin in this book, so instead he spends 100% of his time freaking right the fuck out. (Sartre felt that we have to create our own meaning, which both is and isn't what I've done here, and his protagonist doesn't get around to it.) The Nausea is what he gets when he thinks about how nothing means anything, which happens often. There are no rules, he thinks. There is no organization. "Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance," he says and by the way here's a super fun game for you single people: pick a quote from this book for your next Bumble date and see if you can say it and still get laid. Here are some more for you.
- "I marvel at these young people: drinking their coffee, they tell clear, plausible stories."
- "Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea."
- "'If you look at yourself too long in the mirror, you'll see a monkey.' I must have looked at myself even longer than that; what I see is well below the monkey, on the fringe of the vegetable world, at the level of jellyfish."
- "For a moment I wondered if I were not going to love humanity. But, after all, it was their Sunday, not mine."
- "We were a heap of living creatures, irritated, embarrassed at ourselves, we hadn't the slightest reason to be there, none of us, each one, confused, vaguely alarmed, felt in the way in relation to the others."
- "What if something were to happen? What if something suddenly started throbbing?"
That last one might work.
Here's another thing Roquentin says: "I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And then, anything, anything could happen." But the thing with this book is that anything doesn't happen, and while I understand that it's sortof the point that nothing happens, that doesn't change the fact that nothing fucking happens, and we have a word for that: the word is boring.
I mean - if this is your first existential freakout, you might get more out of it. I feel like maybe this should be read during college, when people get pretty fired up for existential freakouts. If you're already a grown-up, it's frankly too late for this kind of malarkey. Listen: life is meaningless. You don't need to be here. It's fine. Be nice. Have fun.
1) Be nice
2) have fun
That's it.
Neither of those things occur to Antoine Roquentin in this book, so instead he spends 100% of his time freaking right the fuck out. (Sartre felt that we have to create our own meaning, which both is and isn't what I've done here, and his protagonist doesn't get around to it.) The Nausea is what he gets when he thinks about how nothing means anything, which happens often. There are no rules, he thinks. There is no organization. "Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance," he says and by the way here's a super fun game for you single people: pick a quote from this book for your next Bumble date and see if you can say it and still get laid. Here are some more for you.
- "I marvel at these young people: drinking their coffee, they tell clear, plausible stories."
- "Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea."
- "'If you look at yourself too long in the mirror, you'll see a monkey.' I must have looked at myself even longer than that; what I see is well below the monkey, on the fringe of the vegetable world, at the level of jellyfish."
- "For a moment I wondered if I were not going to love humanity. But, after all, it was their Sunday, not mine."
- "We were a heap of living creatures, irritated, embarrassed at ourselves, we hadn't the slightest reason to be there, none of us, each one, confused, vaguely alarmed, felt in the way in relation to the others."
- "What if something were to happen? What if something suddenly started throbbing?"
That last one might work.
Here's another thing Roquentin says: "I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And then, anything, anything could happen." But the thing with this book is that anything doesn't happen, and while I understand that it's sortof the point that nothing happens, that doesn't change the fact that nothing fucking happens, and we have a word for that: the word is boring.
I mean - if this is your first existential freakout, you might get more out of it. I feel like maybe this should be read during college, when people get pretty fired up for existential freakouts. If you're already a grown-up, it's frankly too late for this kind of malarkey. Listen: life is meaningless. You don't need to be here. It's fine. Be nice. Have fun.
June 29, 2017
Fear, anxiety, suffering, freedom, and self-deception鈥� that's the human condition right there for you folks.
Nothing matters.
Life is meaningless. Life is pointless. Life is empty.
I'm going to have to reread this again to fully wrap my head around it.
Nothing matters.
Life is meaningless. Life is pointless. Life is empty.
I'm going to have to reread this again to fully wrap my head around it.
December 21, 2016
An谩lisis breve y probablemente inexacto de Antoine Roquentin
Antoine Roquentin, hombre de 30 a帽os, soltero, franc茅s, vive en Bouville, historiador aficionado y adicto al trabajo. Sartre centr贸 en aquel personaje, en apariencia trivial y sin mucho atractivo, el hast铆o, el absurdo que ilustra su filosof铆a existencialista. Roquentin se siente consternado por el conocimiento de su futilidad, una bolsa de huesos sin finalidad. Le repugna su existencia, la rechaza, y le repele el conocimiento de su miseria e insignificancia, le causa lo que 茅l llama la N谩usea y se cierra a s铆 mismo en una coraza carente de significado y destino.
Roquentin se ve disgustado por la imperturbable falta de vida de los objetos y de las mismas personas. No cree en nada, solo en lo que ve y lo que no ve no vale la pena ser estudiado. A trav茅s de sus ojos no somos m谩s que ap茅ndices del mundo sin ninguna funci贸n requerida para el curso natural del tiempo, y su incapacidad de encontrar significado conforma en s铆 mismo un calvario aparte en su sufrimiento.
Pero este sentimiento de, quiz谩, redundancia, se agrava al caer en la cuenta de que su autoaborrecimiento no hace m谩s que avivar la llama de su existencia. 脡濒 existe por el odio a su existencia. Roquentin comienza asimismo a odiar sus pensamientos, sus sentimientos y su consciencia y a la vez eso alienta lo que detesta. Una paradoja existencial que lo condena a la locura. Un bucle de odio que propulsa su condici贸n de existencia, y eso lo llena de una esencia que vigoriza la N谩usea, la sensaci贸n de ir en contra del Cero.
Roquentin vio en el marqu茅s de Rollebon un sustituto a su existencia. Una persona muerta, que ya no existe f铆sicamente, para declamar su papel. Esto quiz谩 sea un cambio de papeles. Roquentin le da la materia f铆sica, su cuerpo vac铆o, a Rollebon, y Rollebon se encarga de rellenarlo de sentido. Cuando Roquentin se harta de Rollebon, su vida se torna ya completamente absurda y agobiante:
Roquentin ve a la existencia como una envoltura repulsiva que carece de raz贸n por dentro. Su superficialidad lo condena a encontrar algo por lo que vivir. Bajo el paisaje de charcos podridos, bigotes llenos de migas de pan, dientes amarillos y zapatos desgastados, no halla nada por lo que valga la pena continuar respirando. Sin embargo, eso sucede por su renuencia a buscarle una noci贸n mayor, oculta. Y aqu铆 a mi parecer reside el deber del humanista, del llamado Autodidacta, espec铆ficamente en el almuerzo que mantuvieron juntos en uno de los restaurantes. El humanista ve a los hombre separados en sus partes y ama en cada uno determinadas partes de su conjunto. Le encuentra un sentido para amar 鈥攜 por lo tanto vivir鈥� a cada individuo. Roquentin, en su defensa, proclama que dicho sistema de b煤squeda de un significado mayor ciega al observador de, precisamente, ese significado mayor:
Asimismo Roquentin parece autoproclamarse due帽o de la absoluta verdad. No solo se siente vac铆o y dentro de un pozo negro, sino que cree que ese pozo negro es solo ocupado por 茅l. Para 茅l, las personas en los restaurantes que frecuentaba ignoran el absurdo de la existencia, son solo peones de la Nada que r铆en por su desconocimiento. Esto lo pone a Roquentin en un lugar no solo de hast铆o sino de soberbia, e incluso no solo de soberbia, sino tambi茅n de soledad e incomprensi贸n, y eso, lejos de abrumarlo, le hace carcajear. Roquentin es un hombre que se regocija en su conocimiento, y se burla de quienes no lo comparten, m谩s precisamente de quienes ignoran la aberraci贸n del hecho de existir. Esto se ve, por citar un ejemplo, cuando Roquentin est谩 observando en el restaurante Camille a un hombre de aspecto cadav茅rico:
Roquentin se burla de la ilusi贸n del hombre, da por sabido que esa persona no es consciente de su condici贸n, sin saberlo realmente. Roquentin se aparta a s铆 mismo del consuelo de ser entendido, simplemente para mantener una distancia de superioridad y, tal vez, de seguridad. Y para 茅l todos los actos humanos son distracciones de la fragilidad inherente a vivir.
Pero Roquentin no se aparta del todo. Todav铆a necesita pertenecer, estar, como un voyeur, un observador del delirio. Roquentin no renuncia a estar entre la gente, no se disocia enteramente, sino que hasta las busca. No por nada Roquentin frecuenta restaurantes y museos de arte y la biblioteca en donde siempre lo espera el Autodidacta. Roquentin necesita sentir que su existencia es valorada por otros, y a trav茅s de la valoraci贸n de otros 茅l puede construir su propia valoraci贸n. No obstante a veces sus sentimientos lo traicionan, determinados hechos lo hacer asomar su cabeza de su coraza sin significado y lo ponen en evidencia ante la vulnerabilidad humana. Su preocupaci贸n por el se帽or Fasquelle desmonta el estoicismo y su indiferencia camusiana. 驴O acaso solo quer铆a subir la escalera hasta el supuesto cad谩ver del se帽or Fasquelle por puro morbo...?
Otro ejemplo que lo deja en evidencia es su conflictiva relaci贸n con Anny (una vez que dej贸 su trabajo como historiador, que le permit铆a adue帽arse de identidades ajenas). 脡濒 mismo reconoce que esta puede ser la 煤nica raz贸n de su existencia, pero no solo se queda en ese reconocimiento, sino que adem谩s demuestra caer en la ilusi贸n humana de la que tanto se burlaba en otros, siendo simult谩neamente consciente de ella:
Y aqu铆 caemos en la relaci贸n humano-objeto. El objeto es, existe, cuando se lo contempla y se lo considera. Cuando Roquentin contempla un objeto, este adquiere una significaci贸n humana, mayor a su significado meramente f铆sico, y esto lo abruma. Roquentin es un hombre vac铆o, un muerto que respira, y cuando un objeto inanimado adquiere un significado mayor al de su naturaleza inicial debido a un agente externo (como puede ser su consideraci贸n), se ve superado por esa nueva realidad, que sobrepasa sus limitaciones existenciales, puesto que su ser no posee la esencia y sustancia necesaria para hacerle frente a su construcci贸n personal sobre aquel objeto. Dicho de otra manera, el objeto acrecienta su condici贸n de rebeld铆a, su absurdismo.
La consciencia es en donde radica la sustancia de existir. Proclamamos en el lenguaje la existencia de variados objetos sin ser conscientes de ellos, pero una vez que nos detenemos a pensar en nuestras palabras, todo a nuestro alrededor adquiere un car谩cter insoportable. Nosotros le damos consciencia a los objetos, y ellos nos devuelven nuestro reflejo. Roquentin los busca para sentirse en la palma de su mano, su existencia, hasta que la sustancia del objeto en cuesti贸n supera la suya propia. Y aun peor, cuando a un objeto se le concede aquella "consciencia", su absurdo se vuelve m谩s intenso, y la N谩usea retorna.
Una vez que Roquentin se despoja de todo, o mejor dicho, pierde todo, 茅l se considera finalmente libre. Pero no es una libertad de no yacer en una celda sucia de una c谩rcel remota esperando un juicio del que es imposible salir como inocente, sino es una libertad casi pesimista, deprimente y desesperanzadora. Una libertad como sin贸nimo de vac铆o, absurdo y suicidio:
Aqu铆 le pongo un freno a lo dicho sobre Roquentin. Roquentin detesta su existencia desde la primera p谩gina de su diario, pero su modo de buscar estar rodeado de gente (restaurantes, sexo vacuo, su relaci贸n con el Autodidacta, hasta su rol como historiador) 驴no es una manera de reafirmar su existencia? No tiene el car谩cter reclusivo que uno esperar铆a de una persona hastiada. Roquentin persigue la consideraci贸n hacia 茅l de otras personas, a fin de que esas mismas consideraciones revitalicen su condici贸n de persona, aun as铆 si esa revitalizaci贸n acrecienta su sensaci贸n de estar de m谩s, de anormalidad. En resumen, Roquentin es un hip贸crita: aborrece su existencia pero busca permanecer ligado a ella; y no solo eso, sino que tiene como objetivo su reanimaci贸n. Le espanta mientras no quiere perderla.
Llegamos al principio. Su diario, sus memorias. Su rol de historiador le permit铆a conferir vida a personas muertas. Las resucitaba en p谩ginas y se sent铆a en compa帽铆a (falsa, por supuesto, otra ilusi贸n). Pero, y ahora que no tiene a nadie, 驴qu茅 pasar铆a si se autodocumentase? Roquentin lleg贸 a la 煤ltima y mayor de las ilusiones, y a la m谩s desesperada manera de seguir siendo una persona que vale en una humanidad en la que en realidad nada tiene valor intr铆nseco y nada deber铆a ser como es. Roquentin se vuelve, si es que tiene sentido utilizar esta palabra, autoconsciente. Se vivifica a s铆 mismo a partir de su miseria, a trav茅s de su escritura. Se exterioriza, busca transmitirse a s铆 mismo de una sustancia que no tiene. Se viste y rellena con el contenido que sale de su mismo existir, aunque sepa que eso est谩 cerca de la violaci贸n de lo natural, la inexistencia.
Y ac谩 surge el problema. 驴C贸mo puede autorevitalizarse si est谩 casi vac铆o, si carece de suficiente sustancia propia? Escribir un libro de ficci贸n, para 茅l, podr铆a ser un modo de vivir en otros a trav茅s de su escritura. Un refugio y quiz谩 una fuente de vida que se dota a s铆 mismo a partir de personas inexistentes. Esta iron铆a, o podr铆a decirse este elegante y discreto humor, forma parte de la esperanza que tanto rechazaba Roquentin al principio de su diario, y que no hizo m谩s que llevarlo a la reafirmaci贸n de su absurdo. La creaci贸n como escape, como una 驴contra? de la falta de sentido. Cuando Roquentin crea, esas creaciones gozan de un sentido.
Quiz谩 Roquentin haya logrado llegar al sentido de su peque帽o papel en la historia y el tiempo, quiz谩 no deba buscar m谩s y haya encontrado la f贸rmula de la eterna juventud. Mientras tanto, esto nos deja, a nosotros, sus lectores del mundo real, en una habitaci贸n fr铆a y vac铆a, en medio de paredes h煤medas y telara帽as rotas, sentados adelante de un escritorio con un 煤nico papel sucio sobre 茅l, e iluminado por una vieja l谩mpara titilante se puede leer, si nos acercamos lo suficiente, en tinta negra y seca:
Antoine Roquentin, hombre de 30 a帽os, soltero, franc茅s, vive en Bouville, historiador aficionado y adicto al trabajo. Sartre centr贸 en aquel personaje, en apariencia trivial y sin mucho atractivo, el hast铆o, el absurdo que ilustra su filosof铆a existencialista. Roquentin se siente consternado por el conocimiento de su futilidad, una bolsa de huesos sin finalidad. Le repugna su existencia, la rechaza, y le repele el conocimiento de su miseria e insignificancia, le causa lo que 茅l llama la N谩usea y se cierra a s铆 mismo en una coraza carente de significado y destino.
"Es que pienso que estamos todos aqu铆, comiendo y bebiendo para conservar nuestra preciosa existencia, y no hay nada, nada, ninguna raz贸n para existir".
Roquentin se ve disgustado por la imperturbable falta de vida de los objetos y de las mismas personas. No cree en nada, solo en lo que ve y lo que no ve no vale la pena ser estudiado. A trav茅s de sus ojos no somos m谩s que ap茅ndices del mundo sin ninguna funci贸n requerida para el curso natural del tiempo, y su incapacidad de encontrar significado conforma en s铆 mismo un calvario aparte en su sufrimiento.
Pero este sentimiento de, quiz谩, redundancia, se agrava al caer en la cuenta de que su autoaborrecimiento no hace m谩s que avivar la llama de su existencia. 脡濒 existe por el odio a su existencia. Roquentin comienza asimismo a odiar sus pensamientos, sus sentimientos y su consciencia y a la vez eso alienta lo que detesta. Una paradoja existencial que lo condena a la locura. Un bucle de odio que propulsa su condici贸n de existencia, y eso lo llena de una esencia que vigoriza la N谩usea, la sensaci贸n de ir en contra del Cero.
"Existo porque pienso... y no puedo dejar de pensar. En este mismo momento 鈥攅s atroz鈥� si existo es porque me horroriza existir".
Roquentin vio en el marqu茅s de Rollebon un sustituto a su existencia. Una persona muerta, que ya no existe f铆sicamente, para declamar su papel. Esto quiz谩 sea un cambio de papeles. Roquentin le da la materia f铆sica, su cuerpo vac铆o, a Rollebon, y Rollebon se encarga de rellenarlo de sentido. Cuando Roquentin se harta de Rollebon, su vida se torna ya completamente absurda y agobiante:
"M. de Rollebon era mi socio: 茅l me necesitaba para ser, y yo lo necesitaba para no sentir mi ser".
Roquentin ve a la existencia como una envoltura repulsiva que carece de raz贸n por dentro. Su superficialidad lo condena a encontrar algo por lo que vivir. Bajo el paisaje de charcos podridos, bigotes llenos de migas de pan, dientes amarillos y zapatos desgastados, no halla nada por lo que valga la pena continuar respirando. Sin embargo, eso sucede por su renuencia a buscarle una noci贸n mayor, oculta. Y aqu铆 a mi parecer reside el deber del humanista, del llamado Autodidacta, espec铆ficamente en el almuerzo que mantuvieron juntos en uno de los restaurantes. El humanista ve a los hombre separados en sus partes y ama en cada uno determinadas partes de su conjunto. Le encuentra un sentido para amar 鈥攜 por lo tanto vivir鈥� a cada individuo. Roquentin, en su defensa, proclama que dicho sistema de b煤squeda de un significado mayor ciega al observador de, precisamente, ese significado mayor:
"鈥擡s como ese se帽or que est谩 detr谩s de usted, bebiendo agua de Vichy. Supongo que usted ama en 茅l al Hombre Maduro, al Hombre Maduro que se encamina con valor hacia su declinaci贸n y que cuida su apariencia porque no quiere abandonarse.
鈥擡xactamente 鈥攎e dice, desafi谩ndome.
鈥斅縔 no ve que es un cochino?".
Asimismo Roquentin parece autoproclamarse due帽o de la absoluta verdad. No solo se siente vac铆o y dentro de un pozo negro, sino que cree que ese pozo negro es solo ocupado por 茅l. Para 茅l, las personas en los restaurantes que frecuentaba ignoran el absurdo de la existencia, son solo peones de la Nada que r铆en por su desconocimiento. Esto lo pone a Roquentin en un lugar no solo de hast铆o sino de soberbia, e incluso no solo de soberbia, sino tambi茅n de soledad e incomprensi贸n, y eso, lejos de abrumarlo, le hace carcajear. Roquentin es un hombre que se regocija en su conocimiento, y se burla de quienes no lo comparten, m谩s precisamente de quienes ignoran la aberraci贸n del hecho de existir. Esto se ve, por citar un ejemplo, cuando Roquentin est谩 observando en el restaurante Camille a un hombre de aspecto cadav茅rico:
"El doctor quisiera creerlo, quisiera enmascarar la insostenible realidad; que est谩 solo, sin conocimientos, sin pasado, con una inteligencia que se embota y un cuerpo en descomposici贸n. Por eso ha construido, ha arreglado, ha acolchado bien su peque帽o delirio de compensaci贸n: se dice que progresa. Y para poder soportar su vista en los espejos, ese horrible rostro de cad谩ver trata de creer que en 茅l se han grabado las lecciones de la experiencia".
Roquentin se burla de la ilusi贸n del hombre, da por sabido que esa persona no es consciente de su condici贸n, sin saberlo realmente. Roquentin se aparta a s铆 mismo del consuelo de ser entendido, simplemente para mantener una distancia de superioridad y, tal vez, de seguridad. Y para 茅l todos los actos humanos son distracciones de la fragilidad inherente a vivir.
Pero Roquentin no se aparta del todo. Todav铆a necesita pertenecer, estar, como un voyeur, un observador del delirio. Roquentin no renuncia a estar entre la gente, no se disocia enteramente, sino que hasta las busca. No por nada Roquentin frecuenta restaurantes y museos de arte y la biblioteca en donde siempre lo espera el Autodidacta. Roquentin necesita sentir que su existencia es valorada por otros, y a trav茅s de la valoraci贸n de otros 茅l puede construir su propia valoraci贸n. No obstante a veces sus sentimientos lo traicionan, determinados hechos lo hacer asomar su cabeza de su coraza sin significado y lo ponen en evidencia ante la vulnerabilidad humana. Su preocupaci贸n por el se帽or Fasquelle desmonta el estoicismo y su indiferencia camusiana. 驴O acaso solo quer铆a subir la escalera hasta el supuesto cad谩ver del se帽or Fasquelle por puro morbo...?
Otro ejemplo que lo deja en evidencia es su conflictiva relaci贸n con Anny (una vez que dej贸 su trabajo como historiador, que le permit铆a adue帽arse de identidades ajenas). 脡濒 mismo reconoce que esta puede ser la 煤nica raz贸n de su existencia, pero no solo se queda en ese reconocimiento, sino que adem谩s demuestra caer en la ilusi贸n humana de la que tanto se burlaba en otros, siendo simult谩neamente consciente de ella:
"驴Por qu茅 estoy aqu铆? 驴Y por qu茅 no habr铆a de estar? (...) Dentro de cuatro d铆as ver茅 a Anny; esta es, por el momento, la 煤nica raz贸n de mi vida. 驴Y despu茅s, cuando me haya dejado? Bien s茅 lo que espero, solapadamente: espero que no me deje nunca m谩s. Sin embargo deber铆a saber que Anny jam谩s aceptar谩 envejecer en mi presencia".
Y aqu铆 caemos en la relaci贸n humano-objeto. El objeto es, existe, cuando se lo contempla y se lo considera. Cuando Roquentin contempla un objeto, este adquiere una significaci贸n humana, mayor a su significado meramente f铆sico, y esto lo abruma. Roquentin es un hombre vac铆o, un muerto que respira, y cuando un objeto inanimado adquiere un significado mayor al de su naturaleza inicial debido a un agente externo (como puede ser su consideraci贸n), se ve superado por esa nueva realidad, que sobrepasa sus limitaciones existenciales, puesto que su ser no posee la esencia y sustancia necesaria para hacerle frente a su construcci贸n personal sobre aquel objeto. Dicho de otra manera, el objeto acrecienta su condici贸n de rebeld铆a, su absurdismo.
"Los objetos no deber铆an tocar, puesto que no viven. Uno los usa, los pone en su sitio, vive entre ellos; son 煤tiles, nada m谩s. Y a m铆 me tocan; es insoportable. Tengo miedo de entrar en contacto con ellos como si fueran animales vivos".
La consciencia es en donde radica la sustancia de existir. Proclamamos en el lenguaje la existencia de variados objetos sin ser conscientes de ellos, pero una vez que nos detenemos a pensar en nuestras palabras, todo a nuestro alrededor adquiere un car谩cter insoportable. Nosotros le damos consciencia a los objetos, y ellos nos devuelven nuestro reflejo. Roquentin los busca para sentirse en la palma de su mano, su existencia, hasta que la sustancia del objeto en cuesti贸n supera la suya propia. Y aun peor, cuando a un objeto se le concede aquella "consciencia", su absurdo se vuelve m谩s intenso, y la N谩usea retorna.
"Tampoco es bueno mirar demasiado a los objetos. Los miro para saber qu茅 son y tengo que apartar r谩pidamente los ojos".
Una vez que Roquentin se despoja de todo, o mejor dicho, pierde todo, 茅l se considera finalmente libre. Pero no es una libertad de no yacer en una celda sucia de una c谩rcel remota esperando un juicio del que es imposible salir como inocente, sino es una libertad casi pesimista, deprimente y desesperanzadora. Una libertad como sin贸nimo de vac铆o, absurdo y suicidio:
"Soy libre, no me queda ninguna raz贸n para vivir, todas las que prob茅 aflojaron y ya no puedo imaginar otras".
Aqu铆 le pongo un freno a lo dicho sobre Roquentin. Roquentin detesta su existencia desde la primera p谩gina de su diario, pero su modo de buscar estar rodeado de gente (restaurantes, sexo vacuo, su relaci贸n con el Autodidacta, hasta su rol como historiador) 驴no es una manera de reafirmar su existencia? No tiene el car谩cter reclusivo que uno esperar铆a de una persona hastiada. Roquentin persigue la consideraci贸n hacia 茅l de otras personas, a fin de que esas mismas consideraciones revitalicen su condici贸n de persona, aun as铆 si esa revitalizaci贸n acrecienta su sensaci贸n de estar de m谩s, de anormalidad. En resumen, Roquentin es un hip贸crita: aborrece su existencia pero busca permanecer ligado a ella; y no solo eso, sino que tiene como objetivo su reanimaci贸n. Le espanta mientras no quiere perderla.
"Antoine Roquentin no existe para nadie. 驴Qu茅 es eso: Antoine Roquentin? Es algo abstracto. Un p谩lido y peque帽o recuerdo de m铆 vacila en mi conciencia. Antoine Roquentin... Y de improviso el Yo palidece, palidece, y ya est谩, se extingue".
Llegamos al principio. Su diario, sus memorias. Su rol de historiador le permit铆a conferir vida a personas muertas. Las resucitaba en p谩ginas y se sent铆a en compa帽铆a (falsa, por supuesto, otra ilusi贸n). Pero, y ahora que no tiene a nadie, 驴qu茅 pasar铆a si se autodocumentase? Roquentin lleg贸 a la 煤ltima y mayor de las ilusiones, y a la m谩s desesperada manera de seguir siendo una persona que vale en una humanidad en la que en realidad nada tiene valor intr铆nseco y nada deber铆a ser como es. Roquentin se vuelve, si es que tiene sentido utilizar esta palabra, autoconsciente. Se vivifica a s铆 mismo a partir de su miseria, a trav茅s de su escritura. Se exterioriza, busca transmitirse a s铆 mismo de una sustancia que no tiene. Se viste y rellena con el contenido que sale de su mismo existir, aunque sepa que eso est谩 cerca de la violaci贸n de lo natural, la inexistencia.
"La verdad es que no puedo soltar la pluma; creo que voy a tener la N谩usea y mi impresi贸n es que la retardo escribiendo. Entonces escribo lo que me pasa por la cabeza".
Y ac谩 surge el problema. 驴C贸mo puede autorevitalizarse si est谩 casi vac铆o, si carece de suficiente sustancia propia? Escribir un libro de ficci贸n, para 茅l, podr铆a ser un modo de vivir en otros a trav茅s de su escritura. Un refugio y quiz谩 una fuente de vida que se dota a s铆 mismo a partir de personas inexistentes. Esta iron铆a, o podr铆a decirse este elegante y discreto humor, forma parte de la esperanza que tanto rechazaba Roquentin al principio de su diario, y que no hizo m谩s que llevarlo a la reafirmaci贸n de su absurdo. La creaci贸n como escape, como una 驴contra? de la falta de sentido. Cuando Roquentin crea, esas creaciones gozan de un sentido.
"... una historia que no pueda suceder, una aventura. Tendr铆a que ser bella y dura como el acero, y que avergonzara a la gente de su existencia".
Quiz谩 Roquentin haya logrado llegar al sentido de su peque帽o papel en la historia y el tiempo, quiz谩 no deba buscar m谩s y haya encontrado la f贸rmula de la eterna juventud. Mientras tanto, esto nos deja, a nosotros, sus lectores del mundo real, en una habitaci贸n fr铆a y vac铆a, en medio de paredes h煤medas y telara帽as rotas, sentados adelante de un escritorio con un 煤nico papel sucio sobre 茅l, e iluminado por una vieja l谩mpara titilante se puede leer, si nos acercamos lo suficiente, en tinta negra y seca:
"驴Por qu茅 elegimos vivir?"
Want to read
March 20, 2024becoming insufferable
February 7, 2017
I can鈥檛 really tell you why I picked this up now 鈥� I just decided I needed to read some fiction. Perhaps I also thought I should ease my way gently back into fiction with something written by a philosopher. The more I think about it, the more this book seems like an awfully strange one to pick 鈥� but I seemed quite determined at the time to start reading it. It would be nice to then be able to say 鈥� and this was just the book I needed to read right now, this was just the thing - as if there were some guiding principle to the universe directing our hands and demanding we read things in their proper order, at their proper time. But I can't say that.
The characters in this book that are the most interesting (and I鈥檓 going to use the word 鈥榗haracter鈥� very loosely here) aren鈥檛 necessarily the ones you might think they are going to be when you start. I mean, obviously enough the narrator has to be important here 鈥� we are in his head so everything we see is filtered through that. But I came away thinking that the Self-Taugh Man is probably the most important character other than the narrator.
The character you might think ought to be more important than anyone here would be Anny 鈥� but although there are lots of lovely passages about her, I didn鈥檛 find them coming together as nearly as interesting as I had hoped they might. The hand holding in the cinema, an hour before his train leaves at one point, was really a delight to read, but the conversation in Paris I found harder to really believe.
The other really interesting characters aren鈥檛 really characters at all 鈥� they are the nausea and existence. For Sartre our being proceeds our essence. That is, you don鈥檛 really have an eternal essence, as such, despite our brains perhaps being composed to imagine we do 鈥� but rather we are what we become - so we don't 'remain' but rather change and this is what is fundamentally true about us. Quite a few times we hear that characters are relied upon to remain the same - but this is never to be trusted, I think. This idea of us becoming and changing presents us with lots of paradoxes and none of these are necessarily all that easy to explain.
A lot of this is about the main character, Roquentin, seeking to understand his own essence, I think. He is writing a history, but isn鈥檛 entirely sure why he is. And he is worried 鈥� not least because he is starting to think of himself that he is a bit more flighty than he would like to consider himself to be. Also, and I think this is very important, he basically thinks of himself as a vegetable 鈥� yeah, I know, you weren鈥檛 expecting that, were you?
The introduction to this book makes a lot of his interaction with a chestnut tree at one point during the novel 鈥� but I think this is mostly interesting because of his identification with vegetation that occurs throughout the book. The idea of him vegetating (I鈥檝e no idea if that works in French, by the way, but it echoed throughout the book for me anyway) kept recurring. And when he is with the chestnut tree he basically isn鈥檛 with the tree at all, but rather he says he is the chestnut tree. Well, except he identifies more with the roots of the tree than with the tree itself 鈥� stuck in the ground, hard and black. That sense of dark and of being trapped and of vegetating 鈥� it could easily be badly overdone (over-written), but it didn鈥檛 feel overdone here at all. I thought it was quite clever, to be honest. And then, after he leaves the chestnut tree and after he has fully identified with it, that is when (surprise, surprise) he decides to leave Bouville and go to Paris - to change his life and therefore to be someone else. Here the psychology is particularly interesting 鈥� that he was trapped and vegetating until he identified with something rooted to the ground and it was only then that he could see a way out, a way to move.
The nausea is interesting too 鈥� this really is a character in the book in so many ways. A recurring illness that we can never tell is physical, but one that seems to be a force that makes him move, that occurs when his life is set to change.
I liked this book much more than I thought I was going to. Again, if I didn鈥檛 think I was going to enjoy it, why the hell did I read it? But it was interesting in so many ways. The story of the Self-Taught Man is the most interesting piece here 鈥� and much more interesting today, I suspect, than when it was written. We have become obsessed with paedophilia 鈥� it is our new blasphemy. Part of the reason I avoid films is because I'm sick to death of characters (often priests) who have a horrible secret... So, the idea that Roquentin stands up for the Self-Taught Man 鈥� especially after despising him for being a humanist 鈥� is really interesting. The other people are presented, and as they are, as simply bullies.
Look, the idea of someone sexually assaulting children is repulsive in the extreme, I get it 鈥� but self-righteousness and violent attacks on people who are essentially defenceless are two things I find at least equally repulsive. I would like to think I would have done much as what Roquentin did here in the library, but I worry I may not have ever had the courage.
Like I said, this proved to be a much more interesting book than I thought it was going to be 鈥� you know, given the title - not quite 'vomit' but close enough. I鈥檝e read some of Sartre鈥檚 short stories before and thought they were a bit daft, to be honest 鈥� too keen to make a philosophical point and so, better to have been written as philosophy than as fiction 鈥� but I thought this was clever and understated and a good read generally.
The characters in this book that are the most interesting (and I鈥檓 going to use the word 鈥榗haracter鈥� very loosely here) aren鈥檛 necessarily the ones you might think they are going to be when you start. I mean, obviously enough the narrator has to be important here 鈥� we are in his head so everything we see is filtered through that. But I came away thinking that the Self-Taugh Man is probably the most important character other than the narrator.
The character you might think ought to be more important than anyone here would be Anny 鈥� but although there are lots of lovely passages about her, I didn鈥檛 find them coming together as nearly as interesting as I had hoped they might. The hand holding in the cinema, an hour before his train leaves at one point, was really a delight to read, but the conversation in Paris I found harder to really believe.
The other really interesting characters aren鈥檛 really characters at all 鈥� they are the nausea and existence. For Sartre our being proceeds our essence. That is, you don鈥檛 really have an eternal essence, as such, despite our brains perhaps being composed to imagine we do 鈥� but rather we are what we become - so we don't 'remain' but rather change and this is what is fundamentally true about us. Quite a few times we hear that characters are relied upon to remain the same - but this is never to be trusted, I think. This idea of us becoming and changing presents us with lots of paradoxes and none of these are necessarily all that easy to explain.
A lot of this is about the main character, Roquentin, seeking to understand his own essence, I think. He is writing a history, but isn鈥檛 entirely sure why he is. And he is worried 鈥� not least because he is starting to think of himself that he is a bit more flighty than he would like to consider himself to be. Also, and I think this is very important, he basically thinks of himself as a vegetable 鈥� yeah, I know, you weren鈥檛 expecting that, were you?
The introduction to this book makes a lot of his interaction with a chestnut tree at one point during the novel 鈥� but I think this is mostly interesting because of his identification with vegetation that occurs throughout the book. The idea of him vegetating (I鈥檝e no idea if that works in French, by the way, but it echoed throughout the book for me anyway) kept recurring. And when he is with the chestnut tree he basically isn鈥檛 with the tree at all, but rather he says he is the chestnut tree. Well, except he identifies more with the roots of the tree than with the tree itself 鈥� stuck in the ground, hard and black. That sense of dark and of being trapped and of vegetating 鈥� it could easily be badly overdone (over-written), but it didn鈥檛 feel overdone here at all. I thought it was quite clever, to be honest. And then, after he leaves the chestnut tree and after he has fully identified with it, that is when (surprise, surprise) he decides to leave Bouville and go to Paris - to change his life and therefore to be someone else. Here the psychology is particularly interesting 鈥� that he was trapped and vegetating until he identified with something rooted to the ground and it was only then that he could see a way out, a way to move.
The nausea is interesting too 鈥� this really is a character in the book in so many ways. A recurring illness that we can never tell is physical, but one that seems to be a force that makes him move, that occurs when his life is set to change.
I liked this book much more than I thought I was going to. Again, if I didn鈥檛 think I was going to enjoy it, why the hell did I read it? But it was interesting in so many ways. The story of the Self-Taught Man is the most interesting piece here 鈥� and much more interesting today, I suspect, than when it was written. We have become obsessed with paedophilia 鈥� it is our new blasphemy. Part of the reason I avoid films is because I'm sick to death of characters (often priests) who have a horrible secret... So, the idea that Roquentin stands up for the Self-Taught Man 鈥� especially after despising him for being a humanist 鈥� is really interesting. The other people are presented, and as they are, as simply bullies.
Look, the idea of someone sexually assaulting children is repulsive in the extreme, I get it 鈥� but self-righteousness and violent attacks on people who are essentially defenceless are two things I find at least equally repulsive. I would like to think I would have done much as what Roquentin did here in the library, but I worry I may not have ever had the courage.
Like I said, this proved to be a much more interesting book than I thought it was going to be 鈥� you know, given the title - not quite 'vomit' but close enough. I鈥檝e read some of Sartre鈥檚 short stories before and thought they were a bit daft, to be honest 鈥� too keen to make a philosophical point and so, better to have been written as philosophy than as fiction 鈥� but I thought this was clever and understated and a good read generally.
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