I am sure that fifteen minutes would be enough to reach supreme self-contempt. No thank you, I want none of that.
nauseaby jean-paul Sartre
I get up. I move through this pale light; I see it change beneath my hands and on the sleeves of my coat: I cannot describe how much it disgusts me.
But you have to choose: live or tell.
The four cafés on the Boulevard Victor-Noir, shining in the night, side by side, and which are much more than cafés – aquariums, ships, stars or great white eyes – have lost their ambiguous charm.
Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea.
Perhaps it is impossible to understand one’s own face. Or perhaps it is because I am a single man? People who live in society have learned how to see themselves in mirrors as they appear to their friends. I have no friends. Is that why my flesh is so naked? You might say – yes you might say, nature without humanity.
His blue cotton shirt stands out joyfully against a chocolate-coloured 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 café, I am the one who is within it.
From time to time I yawn so widely that tears roll down my cheek.
I am illuminated within by a diminishing light.
Existence is without memory; of the vanished it retains nothing — not even a memory.