Nausea

The mind of man, which he did not ask to be given, demands a reason and a meaning—this is its self-defining cause—and yet it finds itself in the midst of a radically meaningless existence. The result: impasse. And nausea.

Suffering is the origin of consciousness,” Dostoevski wrote

Sunday had spent its fleeting youth

Vain desire: something would stay, taut in them: they were too afraid someone would spoil their lovely Sunday

They were greedily awaiting the hour of soft shadows, of relaxation, abandon, the hour when the screen, glowing like a white stone under water, would speak and dream for them

This is a familiar Sunday noise, this ringing in broad daylight

would they have time to store up enough youth to start anew on Monday morning1?

liked this shop very much, it had a cynical and obstinate look, it insolently recalled the rights of dirt and vermin, only two paces from the most costly church in France.

I thought I could detect sadness on some of the more relaxed faces: but no, these people were neither sad nor gay: they were at rest.

They eat hurriedly in boarding-houses which they call their “popotes” and, since they need a little luxury, they come here after their meals. They drink a cup of coffee and play poker dice; they make a little noise, an inconsistent noise which doesn’t bother me. In order to exist, they also must consort with others.