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This book made me want to throw up after I realized what a bad purchase it was. Like those books in The Victorian Novel class. I couldn't get through it. It's a tortuously slow read. It's painful, it's hard so why put up with it. I didn't I gave it to the garbage collectors.
And yet, mine is only the 95th review. I can't manage to feel myself very well, I am so forgotten. I can only surmise that that's a reflection of the small percentage of readers who can trudge through the nauseating pages all the way to the end. The only real thing left in me is existence which feels it exists. I kid you not.Nausea has been around since 1938. Well I did :-(I exist, you exist, we exist, the tree exists, the chair exists, the door exists. If so, then he succeeded.
I get it. Can you imagine reading 178 pages of this folderol. What's your point. Don't let the potifications of the philosophical academicians fool you.
"Now when I say 'I,' it seems hollow to me. Given the perception created by many reviewers and critics, it would be irresponsible of me not to take a moment to warn the uninformed that Nausea is not a novel. There is no story, no plot, no meaningful character development (unless you count the narrator's sense of nausea over his own existence), no relationship of any depth between characters, and hardly any reason to keep turning the pages.The narrator, Antoine Roquentin, is an insipid malcontent whose only substantive act is to come to the aid of a child molester. That's certainly long enough for any book of merit to have at least 100 reviews on Amazon.com. In fact, the views expressed in Nausea can be downright--forgive me, I cannot resist--nauseating. I write for the common man (and woman). I yawn, lengthily." As do I. Then comes the all-too-natural reluctance for most people to admit they've wasted their time.
Simply because a train of thought that was in vogue two or three generations ago has a multi-syllabic label makes it neither interesting nor sophisticated. Maybe that was Satre's point. Combine this with the desire to come across as sophisticated, and voila., you have a disproportionate number of positive reviews. There is nothing of real substance here.
*Nausea* is quite simply one of the major touchstones of the "literature of alienation" that so marked the 20th century--a sickness we may have survived but never really recovered from, sort of like a spiritual AIDS. Reading it will likely make you sick, too, or, rather, aware of your illness. Free, that is, of everything, including such comfortable "slaveries" as meaning, connection, even identity.
The world is not only too much with us--it's suffocating, crushing, and raping us with its overbearing and inescapable sweaty presence. Marxism), but here, in *Nausea,* he compromises nothing. Sartre's psychologically claustrophobic tale of a youngish historian overwhelmed by existence sounds all the notes of paranoia, pointlessness, disgust, and dread elevated to a pitch of hysterical self-consciousness and over-sensibility that we find in the biographies of the antiheroes of Hamsun and Kafka.
In the years to come, Sartre may have softened his position some and even found religion (a.k.a. Of all philosophers who tried it, no one writes a better novel dramatizing his ideas than Sartre--not even Camus, the lesser, in my opinion, as both novelist and philosopher. Roquentin is the perfect foil for Sartre's core "revelation"--the horrible insight that we are free in the most radical sense of all.
This is a text such as a prophet crying in the wilderness might have written.It's an astonishing thing when an author can have you at the edge of your seat, mouth dry, riveted by a philosophical discussion between two characters having lunch in a café or during a pantomime of tawdry misfortune set in a library--but Sartre manages this and much more.*Nausea* is a sick book about a sick man in a world sick unto death even if it doesn't quite know it. It won't cure you of anything but your chronic ignorance.
The novel is outside the realm of having a plot." Jean-Paul then turned to his publisher and whispered, "Plot. well, it's just best if you read the novel; and then I'm sure you'll understand what it is." The reporter responded by saying "I have read the novel, sir; and I beg your pardon, but I still don't understand what existentialism is." Jean-Paul glanced around the room nervously looking for a sympathetic face. Also, could you briefly define this philosophy." Jean-Paul's face glowed slightly as he prepared to answer the question. Jean-Paul smiled at him and nodded signaling that he may proceed in asking his question. His publisher has sent advance copies of the novel to the press in order to prepare them for the large press conference which will coincide with the mainstream release of the novel.
One brave reporter timidly raised his hand. Essentially, this novel is an excuse for pseudo-intellectuals to turn their noses up at the common man and claim that he is `inferior' for not `getting it.'" Jean-Paul cleared his throat and said, "Well. Jean-Paul Sartre has completed his novel Nausea. How terribly bourgeois." Another reporter raised his hand and asked, "So.
"What these individuals believe is true. Also, the `philosophy' in the novel is vague at best. The reporter cleared his throat and asked, "So the novel doesn't actually have a plot then." Jean-Paul let out a short laugh and shook his head side to side while saying, "No, no. does the novel feature any interesting characters or exciting situations." Jean-Paul once again had a short laugh and answered, "No, no. Your opinion is not entirely without." Jean-Paul's publisher, seeing that the author was struggling to answer this pointed question, intervened and said, "We'd like to thank you gentlemen for coming to this press conference, but I'm afraid we've run out of time.
The year is 1938. The novel is existentialist in nature. I would define existentialism by. The reporter then went on to say, "Well, sir, what I've gathered from today's press conference is that the novel has no plot, interesting characters, exciting situations, or humor. Quite the opposite, in fact." The first reporter raised his hand again and asked, "So, the novel's actually supposed to be boring." Jean-Paul replied, "Basically, yes." A reporter in the back of the room said, "Certain individuals have claimed that this novel is of great philosophical importance. Mr. The following is an account of that stupendous moment in French history.After the publisher had finished reciting his usual list of literary clichés, the floor was opened for a general Q&A session.
Sartre has an important trip the United States that he must make, and we can't have him missing his boat. I wouldn't want my novel dragged down with any interesting characters or exciting situations." The same reporter then asked, "Well, is it supposed to be a comedy or something then." Jean-Paul replied, "Most certainly not. Do you believe that this is true, and if you do then what philosophy does the novel advocate. I can see how a certain lack of. Refreshments are available in the lobby; and, once again, thank you for coming."
I read this book last 20 years ago during my lunch hours in a busy Greek cafe in downtown LA, and the experience of finding complete solitude in that environment was so extraordinary, and therefore, has never been forgotten. I am glad that I re-read this gem 20 years later in a completely different setting--this time, alone in a room with minimum lighting. It is like seeing things in slow motions with brilliant commentary on life and existence, often sad, but not depressing. rather peaceful actually when you are able to see life in pure and bare form without all the superfluous attachments.
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