“The voice sings: Some of these days, you’ll miss me honey.
Somebody must have scratched the record at that spot because it makes a peculiar noise. And there is something that wrings the heart: it is that the melody is absolutely untouched by this little stuttering of the needle in the record. It is so far away - so far behind. I understand that too: the record is getting scratched and worn, the singer may be dead; I am myself going to leave, I am going to catch my train. But behind the existence which falls from one present to the next, without a past, without a future, behind these sounds which decompose from day to day, peels away and slips into death, the melody stays the same, young and firm, like a pitiless witness.
The back-cover of this book has the words "A young man's tour de force" written in bold black font, in a grey background, almost vain and gaudy, saved only by the fact that it is in black and not in gold. It is an understatement.
Sartre's work leaves me with a clear idea of the void that we live in - a world with spaces and objects, and nothing. We try to fill it will meaning, we try to find connections, we try pursuing grand themes, we love, hate, cry, laugh and shout. Nausea is about Antoine Roquetin - a man who could be you or me - who feels helpless about his existence. He realizes he must go on, and as he plunges into the depths of these thoughts, he associates meanings and feelings with his interactions with objects.
There were moments when I loathed the work and wished it wasn't written, because it was true. But such a magical description of youth and existence in this world must be real. It must be tangible. Like the objects of Roquetin's nausea.
If this book doesn't make you feel miserable, then you are impervious and your delusion is complete. It is a roller-coaster going down, down, down...
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