I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea (via imfantasyparade)
Posts tagged nausea.
Existence is what I am afraid of.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 14, 2011 at 09:55am
I am going to outlive myself. Eat, sleep, sleep, eat. Exist slowly, softly, like these trees, like a puddle of water, like the red bench in the streetcar.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 14, 2011 at 09:01am
If you existed, you had to exist all the way, as far as mouldiness, bloatedness, obscenity were concerned. In another world, circles, bars of music keep their pure and rigid lines. But existence is a deflection.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 11, 2011 at 09:35am
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?
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 10, 2011 at 10:29pm
I feel neutral. My knife is on the table. I open it. Why not? It would be a change in any case. I put my left hand on the pad and stab the knife into the palm. The movement was too nervous; the blade slipped, the wound is superficial. It bleeds. Then what? What has changed? Still, I watch with satisfaction, on the white paper, across the lines I wrote a little while ago, this tiny pool of blood which has at last stopped being me. Four lines on a white paper, a spot of blood, that makes a beautiful memory.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 10, 2011 at 05:45pm
How serpentine this feeling of existing – I unwind it, slowly … 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 musn’t think that I don’t want to think. Because that’s still a thought.” Will there never be an end to it?
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 09, 2011 at 05:18pm
Then I realized what separated us: what I thought about him could not read him; it was psychology, the kind they write about in books. But his judgment went through me like a sword and questioned my very right to exist. And it was true, I had always realized it; I hadn’t the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant or a miracle. My life put out feelers towards small pleasures in every direction. Sometimes it sent out vague signals; at other times I felt nothing more than a harmless buzzing.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 08, 2011 at 08:49pm
I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 08, 2011 at 07:16pm
Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that’s all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.
Jean-Paul Sartre (1938), Nausea. (Translated by Lloyd Alexander)
∞ June 07, 2011 at 03:57pm
Boner Dust.
Suzanna.
Lost on my way to life.
I collect postcards and would love to do a postcard exchange with each and every one of my followers.
Also, I love ducks.
Lost on my way to life.
I collect postcards and would love to do a postcard exchange with each and every one of my followers.
Also, I love ducks.
