Nausea
The classic Existentialist novel, with a newintroduction by renowned poet, translator, and critic Richard Howard.
Winner of the 1964 Nobel Prize for Literature, Jean-Paul Sartre, French philosopher, critic, novelist, and dramatist, holds a position of singular eminence in the world of letters. Among readers and critics familiar with the whole of Sartre's work, it is generally recognized that his earliest novel, La Nausée (first published in 1938), is his finest and most significant. It is unquestionably a key novel of the twentieth century and a landmark in Existentialist fiction.
Nausea is the story of Antoine Roquentin, a French writer who is horrified at his own existence. In impressionistic, diary form he ruthlessly catalogues his every feeling and sensation. His thoughts culminate in a pervasive, overpowering feeling of nausea which "spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of our time?the time of purple suspenders and broken chair seats; it is made of wide, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain." Roquentin's efforts to come to terms with life, his philosophical and psychological struggles, give Sartre the opportunity to dramatize the tenets of his Existentialist creed.
Nausea Accessories
Nausea Reviews
This book made me want to throw up after I realized what a bad purchase it was. I couldn't get through it. It's a tortuously slow read. Like those books in The Victorian Novel class. It's painful, it's hard so why put up with it. I didn't I gave it to the garbage collectors.
"Now when I say 'I,' it seems hollow to me. I can't manage to feel myself very well, I am so forgotten. The only real thing left in me is existence which feels it exists. I yawn, lengthily."
As do I. Can you imagine reading 178 pages of this folderol? Well I did :-(
I exist, you exist, we exist, the tree exists, the chair exists, the door exists. I get it. What's your point? 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. In fact, the views expressed in Nausea can be downright--forgive me, I cannot resist--nauseating. Maybe that was Satre's point. If so, then he succeeded.
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. I kid you not.
Nausea has been around since 1938. That's certainly long enough for any book of merit to have at least 100 reviews on Amazon.com. And yet, mine is only the 95th review. 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. Then comes the all-too-natural reluctance for most people to admit they've wasted their time. Combine this with the desire to come across as sophisticated, and voila!, you have a disproportionate number of positive reviews.
I write for the common man (and woman). Don't let the potifications of the philosophical academicians fool you. 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.
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. The world is not only too much with us--it's suffocating, crushing, and raping us with its overbearing and inescapable sweaty presence.
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. Free, that is, of everything, including such comfortable "slaveries" as meaning, connection, even identity. In the years to come, Sartre may have softened his position some and even found religion (a.k.a. Marxism), but here, in *Nausea,* he compromises nothing. 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. Reading it will likely make you sick, too, or, rather, aware of your illness. It won't cure you of anything but your chronic ignorance.
The year is 1938. Jean-Paul Sartre has completed his novel Nausea. 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. 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. One brave reporter timidly raised his hand. Jean-Paul smiled at him and nodded signaling that he may proceed in asking his question. 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. The novel is outside the realm of having a plot." Jean-Paul then turned to his publisher and whispered, "Plot! How terribly bourgeois!" Another reporter raised his hand and asked, "So... does the novel feature any interesting characters or exciting situations?" Jean-Paul once again had a short laugh and answered, "No, no. 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. 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. Do you believe that this is true, and if you do then what philosophy does the novel advocate? Also, could you briefly define this philosophy?" Jean-Paul's face glowed slightly as he prepared to answer the question. "What these individuals believe is true. The novel is existentialist in nature. I would define existentialism by... 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. 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. Also, the `philosophy' in the novel is vague at best. 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... I can see how a certain lack of... 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. Mr. Sartre has an important trip the United States that he must make, and we can't have him missing his boat! 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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