Anyhow, it is a definite colour: I am glad I have red hair. There is it is in the mirror, it makes itself seen, it shines. I am still lucky: if my forehead was surmounted by one of those neutral heads of hair which are neither chestnut nor blond, my face would be lost in vagueness, it would make me dizzy.
nauseaby jean-paul Sartre
Everywhere, now, there are objects like this glass of beer on the table there. When I see it, I feel like saying: “Enough.” I realize quite well that I have gone too far.
The letters I had inscribed on it were not even dry yet and already they belonged to the past.
The root was not black, there was no black on this piece of wood — there was . . . something else: black, like the circle, did not exist.
The simplest, most indefinable quality had too much content, in relation to itself, in its heart.
But this richness was lost in confusion and finally was no more because it was too much.
No: it didn’t go as far as that, nothing that exists can be comic; it was like a floating analogy, almost entirely elusive, with certain aspects of vaudeville.
I scraped my heel against this black claw: I wanted to peel off some of the bark. For no reason at all, out of defiance, to make the bare pink appear absurd on the tanned leather: to play with the absurdity of the world. But, when I drew my heel back, I saw that the bark was still black.
I am so happy when a Negress sings: what summits would I not reach if my own life made the subject of the melody.
Existence is a fullness which man can never abandon.