Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre

Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

In order to prove your existence you have to be sick or pathologically inclined. There is nausea and there is Nausea. This is from We by Yevgeny Zamyatin

I feel myself. But it’s only the eye with a lash in int, the swollen finger, the infected tooth that feels itself, is conscious of its own individual being. The healthy eye or finger or tooth doesn’t seem to exist. So it’s clear, isn’t it? Self-consciousness is just a disease.

It was a sort of sweet disgust. How pleasant it was! And it came from the pebble, I’m sure of that, it passed from the pebble into my hands. Yes, that’s it, that’s exactly it: a sort of nausea in the hands.
His blue cotton shirt stands out cheerfully against a chocolate-coloured wall. That too brings on the Nausea. Or rather it is the Nausea. The Nausea isn’t inside me; I can feel it over there on the wall, on the braces, everywhere around me.
Never have I felt as strongly as today that I was devoid of secret dimensions, limited to my body, to the airy thoughts which float up from it like bubbles, I build my memories with my present, I am rejected, abandoned in the present. I try in vain to rejoin the past: I cannot escape from myself.
Nauseating to read!


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