Read La Nausée by Jean-Paul Sartre Online

la-nause

Donc j'étais tout à l'heure au Jardin public. La racine du marronnier s'enfonçait dans la terre, juste au-dessous de mon banc. Je ne me rappelais plus que c'était une racine. Les mots s'étaient évanouis et, avec eux, la signification des choses, leurs modes d'emploi, les faibles repères que les hommes ont tracés à leur surface. J'étais assis, un peu voûté, la tête basse, sDonc j'étais tout à l'heure au Jardin public. La racine du marronnier s'enfonçait dans la terre, juste au-dessous de mon banc. Je ne me rappelais plus que c'était une racine. Les mots s'étaient évanouis et, avec eux, la signification des choses, leurs modes d'emploi, les faibles repères que les hommes ont tracés à leur surface. J'étais assis, un peu voûté, la tête basse, seul en face de cette masse noire et noueuse entièrement brute et qui me faisait peur. Et puis j'ai eu cette illumination. Ça m'a coupé le souffle. Jamais, avant ces derniers jours, je n'avais pressenti ce que voulait dire " exister "....

Title : La Nausée
Author :
Rating :
ISBN : 9782070368051
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 250 Pages
Status : Available For Download
Last checked : 21 Minutes ago!

La Nausée Reviews

  • Jahn Sood
    2018-11-22 12:15

    I put a longer review of this book / a journal entry that I wrote while I was reading it in "my writing" since it was too long for this page.6.9.07Nausea is not a good thing to have as the only thing that belongs to you, and even worse as the only thing that you belong to. It is sickening and dark and so terribly everyday that it gets inside you if you let it. Sartre writes beautifully and describes the physical world in such incredible detail, that if you are a reader, and even more if you are a writer, you want to keep going and never put it down, but if you are not emotionally stable enough to handle the fact that you might have done nothing but existing, don't read this book. If you are jaded by love don't read this book. If you almost lost your self in desire, don't read this book. Probably nobody should read this book. Then again, if you are like me and obsessed with words and the art that comes from darkness and the study of lonliness, then this is a work of genius. Its beautifully written, terrifying and intense. So go ahead, but at your own risk, and when you freak the hell out, don't tell anyone that it was me who recommended that you mess with Sartre.

  • Florencia
    2018-11-22 17:48

    Roquentin, Meursault; Meursault, Roquentin. Now, go outside, grab a cup of coffee and have fun. I'll be here, sitting on the floor surrounded by cupcakes, ice cream and some twisted books, like an existentialist Bridget Jones, just contemplating my own ridiculous existence, thanks to you guys and your crude and insightful comments about life and its inevitable absurdity. It is a tough read. Especially if you feel like a giant failure that never lived, but existed (to live, one of the rarest thing in the world, according to another great writer). I don't know about the life situation (and mental health condition) of you people out there, so I will certainly avoid the pressure of recommending this book. At the same time, I wish everyone could enjoy Sartre's beautiful writing. Yes, that is beautiful. And not too difficult to understand.A couple of samples:"Something has happened to me, I can't doubt it any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and I was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now, it's blossoming.""When you live alone you no longer know what it is to tell a story: the plausible disappears at the same time as the friends." (So simple and true.) "If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke... and then it starts again: "Smoke . . . not to think . . . don't want to think . . . I think I don't want to think. I mustn't think that I don't want to think. Because that's still a thought." Will there never be an end to it? My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think . . . and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment - it's frightful - if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing." "They did not want to exist, only they could not help themselves... Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance." "You know, it's quite a job starting to love somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment, in the very beginning, when you have to jump across a precipice: if you think about it you don't do it. I know I'll never jump again." (NEVER)His words are lethal. And real. And that's a dangerous mix. He shares some thoughts that a lot of people can relate to, and, in most cases, those people won't know what to do with all that. I know I don't. Besides feeling sick, what can you do? Write a book? Eat more ice cream? Go skydiving? Plan a round-the-world trip? Quit your job and live in the country, eating raspberries? Oh, to face the absurdity of the world and to feel free because of that. To stop this never-ending search for meaning. To live. To live? A rare thing, indeed. (Oh dear, I sound like a self-help author.)This was the first time I read Sartre. I've read the brilliant, the one and only, the master at describing the human condition, Dostoevsky; Camus, whose works I really like too; Kierkegaard, the pioneer. So, Sartre was a must-read. Those authors speak right to my soul (wherever that is), they get me (well, not Kierkegaard; at least, not that much. It's complicated. We're cool, though). It's a comforting feeling... being understood by some dead writers you'll never meet, obviously.Yeah.Okay. So, I loved this book. It's a new favorite of mine. And I need some Seinfeld reruns now.Note to self: if you're ever going to re-read this, don't do it while listening to Enya, Craig Armstrong or Joy Division. It wasn't a nice feeling.Feb 03, 14* Also on my blog.

  • Helen Ροζουλί Εωσφόρος Vernus Portitor Arcanus Ταμετούρο Αμούν Arnum
    2018-11-16 12:12

    “Some of these days You’ll miss me honey”«Η ναυτία» είναι η λογοτεχνική κατάληξη της θεωρίας του μοναχικού ανθρώπου που καταστρέφεται. Μέσα στον τρόμο της μάταιης αναζήτησης νοήματος,απεικονίζονται με κάθε λεπτομέρεια μη βιώσιμοι ήρωες, τρομακτικοί, θλιβεροί,αφόρητοι. Εκτός απο τη θλίψη της διάλυσης τους υπάρχει και η οδυνηρή συνειδητοποιημένη κατάσταση πως είναι κενές και ανεπαρκείς υποστάσεις. Υπάρξεις χωρίς παρελθόν, χωρίς μέλλον, μέσα σε ένα παρόν που το διαπερνά η μεταφυσική θλίψη της διάλυσης «ΚΑΘΕ ΥΠΑΡΞΗ ΓΕΝΝΙΕΤΑΙ ΑΝΑΙΤΙΑ ΖΕΙ ΑΠΟ ΑΔΥΝΑΜΙΑ ΚΑΙΠΕΘΑΙΝΕΙ ΤΥΧΑΙΑ»Ο Αντουάν Ροκαντέν (συμβολικά κωμικό, σημαίνει ο γελοίος γέρος που παριστάνει τον νεαρό και έχει κάνει το δικό του γύρο του κόσμου)είναι ο πρωταγωνιστής του βιβλίου. Είναι ο «συλλογικός άνθρωπος» που απορροφάται συνεχώς και έντονα απο την παρατήρηση της δίκης του ύπαρξης. Αναλογίζεται το γεγονός ότι υπάρχει, υπάρχει σαν μια συνείδηση που συνδέεται με το σώμα του οποίου το συλλογικό όνομα είναι Αντουάν Ροκαντέν. Η αντίδραση για μια τέτοια συνειδητοποίηση θα μπορούσε να χαρακτηριστεί ως παντοδυναμία, ως θαύμα -της ανθρώπινης νόησης ή παρανόησης- μιας ανώτερης δύναμης. Για τον Αντουάν όμως, η αντίδραση που προκύπτει είναι ο απόλυτος τρόμος. Τον διαπνέει εξ ολοκλήρου μια αντίληψη για την κενή, ριζωμένη ύπαρξη που οδηγεί σε ψυχοσωματικές αισθήσεις. Η κυριότερη αίσθηση ονομάζεται Ναυτία. Για να αποφύγει τη ναυτία ο Αντουάν βυθίζεται στη μελέτη του παρελθόντος, ζει σε μια κωμόπολη της Γαλλίας και μελετά καθημερινά για να γράψει τη βιογραφία ενός πονηρού τυχοδιώκτη, του Μαρκήσιου ντε Ρολμπόν. Η καθημερινότητα του εκφραζει ποικιλία ιδεών και νοημάτων. Στον καθημερινό περίπατο της αστικής τάξης που προκαλεί ναυτία, μαθαίνουμε πως οι αστοί είναι καθάρματα και εξαπατημένες μα ισχυρές υπάρξεις. Στην τοπική βιβλιοθήκη νιώθουμε την ουσία του αστικού ανθρωπισμού και της αισιοδοξίας. Σύμφωνα όμως με τον Αντουάν, δεν υπάρχει στην αναζήτηση της σημασίας της ζωής καμία θέση ανθρωπισμού ή ελπίδας. Απο την πρώην αγαπημένη του έχουμε μια άλλη προοπτική για την ύπαρξη. Σύμφωνα με την Άννυ τα παιδικά κατάλοιπα ριζώνουν για πάντα στη συνείδηση και η υπέρβαση της ύπαρξης μας είναι το μεγαλείο του θανάτου. Ο θάνατος είναι μια «προνομιούχος κατάσταση» εξαιτίας της σημασίας που του αποδίδεται όχι μόνο στην πραγματικότητα αλλά και ως θέμα σε πολλά έργα τέχνης. Γραμμένη σαν ένα είδος ημερολογίου «η Ναυτία» διαβάζεται ως μνημείο αφορισμών για την ύπαρξη και το αντίθετο της. Ειρωνεία,μοναξιά, απόγνωση, θλίψη, σαρκασμός εμπεριέχονται ως βαθιά υποκειμενικές απόψεις.«Η Ναυτία» θριαμβεύει στην πειστική εκφραστικότητα που προσδίδει ο Σαρτρ στον πρωταγωνιστή του βιβλίου.Ο Αντουάν καταφέρνει να μεταφέρει με απόλυτα διαυγή γλώσσα τις ιδέες και τις σκέψεις που βρίσκονται πίσω απο τις απλές ερμηνείες, το πετυχαίνει τέλεια με τον αποκεφαλισμό της ύπαρξης του. Είναι άκομψος και εσωστρεφής, κυκλοθυμικός και απαισιόδοξα διαλυμένος, όμως αναλύει εξαιρετικά τη φύση και χαρίζει απλόχερα διανοητική ενέργεια και βασανιστικούς τρόπους κατανόησης της εξομολόγησης του. «Η Ναυτία» είναι το πρώτο έργο του Σαρτρ που διαβάζω και νομίζω πως θα είναι και το τελευταίο. Ένιωσα τρομερή πίεση, θλίψη και απέραντη ψυχολογική πίεση σε βαθμό φθοράς. Μια θηλιά στο λαιμό που έσφιγγε σταδιακά μέχρι να γίνει αφόρητα πνιγηρή... και μία αίσθηση ναυτίας ...Καλή ανάγνωση. Πολλούς ασπασμούς.

  • فرشاد
    2018-12-01 20:13

    محشر بود. انگار داشتم زندگی خودم رو میخوندم. نوشته های کتاب رو سطر به سطر زندگی کردم. از همون شروع به خودم گفتم "عجب صحنه روشنی" "چقدر همه این نوشته ها زنده اس." بعضی از صفحه های کتاب اونقدر زیبا بود که برمیگشتم و دوباره و سه باره میخوندم. توی بیشتر صفحه های کتاب یه خلاء و یه پوچی خاص وجود داشت که روح من رو جذب می کرد. این کتاب دقیقا هیچ چیزی رو روایت نمیکنه بجز خود هیچ.. بجز پوچی.. به جای وجود.. شاید بشه گفت سلوک یک نویسنده در جهت معنا بخشیدن به زندگی.. خیلی عالی و بی نظیر بود. هرچند که به نظر من برای ارتباط برقرار کردن با این زیبایی باید یه شکل خاصی زندگی کرده باشی.. برای من اونقدر کتاب روشنی بود که انگار خودم همه سطر هاش رو نوشتم.. فکر می‌کنم اگه سارتر این کتاب رو نمی نوشت قطعا یروزی من انجامش میدادم. فوق العاده بود...

  • Kiri
    2018-11-21 16:06

    Okay, wow. They should stock this thing in the bible section. Or the adult erotica section, because either way it gives you some pretty intense experiences.In a nutshell: this book is kind of like an existentialist essay in the form of a diary. It's about this red-haired writer guy Antoine Roquentin, who's recently been overwhelmed with an intolerable awareness of his own existence. Like, super intolerable. Like, a soul-crushing, mind-blowing, nausea-inducing kind of intolerable. It's pretty awesome.And the best thing - thebest. thing.- was the accessibility of it all. Sartre, the fiend, satisfied me in ways that Dostoevsky and Camus never could. I mean, when has an existentialist exposition ever been made so readable? So ironic and captivating, so funny - there were times I actually laughed out loud. Moreover, Sartregets me. I honestly cannot describe the feeling of holding a crummy paperback filled with words written over 50 years ago, and finding one of your own thoughts in amongst those of a fictional character. I guess it's what Christians must feel like when they read the bible. Or what middle-aged single women feel while reading a particularly steamy passage ofPassion in the Prairie.This is the kind of book you could read again and again, discovering some new detail every time, and getting something different out of it with every read. A new favourite!

  • Jon(athan) Nakapalau
    2018-12-05 13:56

    Ogier P. ("the self-taught man") is the symbol of everything that has gone wrong with the socialization process. Nausea places us in a situation where we have to ask ourselves: is knowledge for the sake of knowledge a wise way to spend your life; or can you have knowledge of trivial facts (e.g. game shows) and know nothing about who you are - a life not examined because knowledge was more important.

  • StevenGodin
    2018-11-20 16:54

    Third time lucky...I have always preferred the work of Albert Camus when it comes to the subject of 'existentialism'. It has taken me three attempts to read Nausea to finally appreciate. Whereas I just found Camus easier to digest immediately. This small novel is no doubt an important work and essential reading for philosophical purposes. I remember reading Camus's 'The Stranger and Sartre's Nausea back to back, similar in some ways, not in others, The Stranger lingered for weeks, Nausea drifted away. But for whatever reason, this time around things just clicked. Maybe it helped reading 'The Age of Reason' to finally grasp him, the fact I am a fan of Simone de Beauvoir should mean looking at Sartre in a better light, after all he took her under his wing during her creative days at university. They enjoyed each others company, and this goes to show men and women can become great friends without becoming lovers.Sartre, writer and philosophy professor has certainly embedded himself in literary history, and would say he could have been viewed as the French Kafka by virtue of his gift for expressing the horror of certain intellectual situations, if it weren’t that his ideas, unlike those of the author of “The Great Wall of China,” were not completely foreign to moral problems. Kafka always questioned the meaning of life. Sartre only questions the fact of existence, which is an order of reality much more immediate than the human and social elaborations of the life that is on this side of life.“Nausea,” the journal of Antoine Roquentin, is the novel of absolute solitude, a solitude that made me feel uncomfortable. It is a question here of nothing but the spiritual results of solitude. They are analyzed with a rigor of thought and expression that will no doubt seem intolerable to most readers. Now I see the light, a philosophical novelist of the first order. Since Voltaire, we know that in France the philosophical novel has been a light genre, not far from the fable. Sartre’s literature bears no relation to this frivolous genre, but it gives a very good idea of what a literature associated to an existentialist philosophy might be. The law of the man who is rigorously alone is not the fear of nothingness, but the fear of existence. This discovery takes us far.If his first novel was a work without a solution, by which I mean that it no more opens up any solutions for the universe than the principal works of Dostoevsky, it would perhaps be a singular success without a successor. But with its final pages “Nausea” is not a book without a solution. Jean-Paul Sartre who throughout the novel paints a portrait of a great bourgeois city of social caricature, and has gifts as a novelist that are too precise and too cruel not to result in great denunciations, not to completely open up into reality, a reality I would rather not see.A seminal work that I will come to appreciate even more over the space of time.

  • Andie
    2018-11-23 14:12

    If you live in Florida, lets say Ft. Lauderdale, don't read this book... especially when you're trying to pay the bills by working in a call center and you're aweful at telemarketing and you're roommate is weird and depressed and everyone around you is fake and plastic. That's my only warning. Otherwise, it's a great book.

  • Tosh
    2018-12-05 17:47

    Jean-Paul Sartre's version of "Rebel Without a Cause" and like James Dean, Sartre himself became an icon. Written in the late 30's, Sartre's study of a man who analyze his feelings, bearings on a world that makes him sick. This book has so much identity to it, that it is almost a brand name for 'youth.' There is nothing better then to be caught reading this novel by a pretty girl in a coffee house. Unless it's Starbucks, and then it is just... pointless.

  • jack
    2018-12-05 17:52

    i found this book at a salvation army when i was 17, i had no idea who sartre was, i just liked the description on the back and it sounded really depressing which i was into at the time. i kept trying to read it for the next five years but could never get past the first ten pages or so because it would just bum me out too much.i finally read it when i had just graduated from college. i'm glad that i waited that long because i don't think i would have gotten the joke until then. in much the same way that i'm glad i didn't start listening to the smiths until i was out of highschool. like i would have just taken it all too seriously before that point in time. now i listen to the smiths to cheer myself up. if you get that then you'll love this book.

  • Saleh MoonWalker
    2018-12-03 16:59

    یکی از بهترین رمان هایی که یک نفر میتونه بخونه و مسلما جزو یکی از بهترین رمان های قرن.رمان شروع فوق العاده قوی ای داره، اما میانه داستان به کمی تکرار برمیخوره ولی همچنان در سطح خیلی خوب باقی میمونه و در نهایت با اوج گیری دوباره در انتهای رمان، پایان فوق العاده ای رو برای این رمان رقم میزنه.گفته میشه که تمام فلسفه سارتر رو میشه داخل این کتاب خوند، که تا بخشی از این حرف درسته. فلسفه کلی سارتر رومیتونین در کتاب "هستی و نیستی" یا همون "جستاری در هستی شناسی پدیدار شناختی" بخونین اما بخش اعظم فلسفه ی ساتر که شامل هستی در خود و ... میشه رو به شیوه ی کاملا ساده تر، روان تر و قابل فهم تر رو میتونین در همین رمان بخونین. در نهایت به تمام کسانی که آثار ساتر علاقه مند هستند پیشنهاد میکنم که این کتاب رو از دست ندن و حتما مطالعه کنن.“My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think… and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment - it's frightful - if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire.” ― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

  • FrancoSantos
    2018-11-28 18:03

    Análisis breve y probablemente inexacto de Antoine RoquentinAntoine Roquentin, hombre de 30 años, soltero, francés, vive en Bouville, historiador aficionado y adicto al trabajo. Sartre centró en aquel personaje, en apariencia trivial y sin mucho atractivo, el hastío, el absurdo que ilustra su filosofía existencialista. Roquentin se siente consternado por el conocimiento de su futilidad, una bolsa de huesos sin finalidad. Le repugna su existencia, la rechaza, y le repele el conocimiento de su miseria e insignificancia, le causa lo que él llama la Náusea y se cierra a sí mismo en una coraza carente de significado y destino."Es que pienso que estamos todos aquí, comiendo y bebiendo para conservar nuestra preciosa existencia, y no hay nada, nada, ninguna razón para existir".Roquentin se ve disgustado por la imperturbable falta de vida de los objetos y de las mismas personas. No cree en nada, solo en lo que ve y lo que no ve no vale la pena ser estudiado. A través de sus ojos no somos más que apéndices del mundo sin ninguna función requerida para el curso natural del tiempo, y su incapacidad de encontrar significado conforma en sí mismo un calvario aparte en su sufrimiento.Pero este sentimiento de, quizá, redundancia, se agrava al caer en la cuenta de que su autoaborrecimiento no hace más que avivar la llama de su existencia. Él existe por el odio a su existencia. Roquentin comienza asimismo a odiar sus pensamientos, sus sentimientos y su consciencia y a la vez eso alienta lo que detesta. Una paradoja existencial que lo condena a la locura. Un bucle de odio que propulsa su condición de existencia, y eso lo llena de una esencia que vigoriza la Náusea, la sensación de ir en contra del Cero."Existo porque pienso... y no puedo dejar de pensar. En este mismo momento —es atroz— si existo es porque me horroriza existir".Roquentin vio en el marqués de Rollebon un sustituto a su existencia. Una persona muerta, que ya no existe físicamente, para declamar su papel. Esto quizá sea un cambio de papeles. Roquentin le da la materia física, su cuerpo vacío, a Rollebon, y Rollebon se encarga de rellenarlo de sentido. Cuando Roquentin se harta de Rollebon, su vida se torna ya completamente absurda y agobiante:"M. de Rollebon era mi socio: él me necesitaba para ser, y yo lo necesitaba para no sentir mi ser".Roquentin ve a la existencia como una envoltura repulsiva que carece de razón por dentro. Su superficialidad lo condena a encontrar algo por lo que vivir. Bajo el paisaje de charcos podridos, bigotes llenos de migas de pan, dientes amarillos y zapatos desgastados, no halla nada por lo que valga la pena continuar respirando. Sin embargo, eso sucede por su renuencia a buscarle una noción mayor, oculta. Y aquí a mi parecer reside el deber del humanista, del llamado Autodidacta, específicamente en el almuerzo que mantuvieron juntos en uno de los restaurantes. El humanista ve a los hombre separados en sus partes y ama en cada uno determinadas partes de su conjunto. Le encuentra un sentido para amar —y por lo tanto vivir— a cada individuo. Roquentin, en su defensa, proclama que dicho sistema de búsqueda de un significado mayor ciega al observador de, precisamente, ese significado mayor:"—Es como ese señor que está detrás de usted, bebiendo agua de Vichy. Supongo que usted ama en él al Hombre Maduro, al Hombre Maduro que se encamina con valor hacia su declinación y que cuida su apariencia porque no quiere abandonarse.—Exactamente —me dice, desafiándome.—¿Y no ve que es un cochino?".Asimismo Roquentin parece autoproclamarse dueño de la absoluta verdad. No solo se siente vacío y dentro de un pozo negro, sino que cree que ese pozo negro es solo ocupado por él. Para él, las personas en los restaurantes que frecuentaba ignoran el absurdo de la existencia, son solo peones de la Nada que ríen por su desconocimiento. Esto lo pone a Roquentin en un lugar no solo de hastío sino de soberbia, e incluso no solo de soberbia, sino también de soledad e incomprensión, y eso, lejos de abrumarlo, le hace carcajear. Roquentin es un hombre que se regocija en su conocimiento, y se burla de quienes no lo comparten, más precisamente de quienes ignoran la aberración del hecho de existir. Esto se ve, por citar un ejemplo, cuando Roquentin está observando en el restaurante Camille a un hombre de aspecto cadavérico:"El doctor quisiera creerlo, quisiera enmascarar la insostenible realidad; que está solo, sin conocimientos, sin pasado, con una inteligencia que se embota y un cuerpo en descomposición. Por eso ha construido, ha arreglado, ha acolchado bien su pequeño delirio de compensación: se dice que progresa. Y para poder soportar su vista en los espejos, ese horrible rostro de cadáver trata de creer que en él se han grabado las lecciones de la experiencia".Roquentin se burla de la ilusión del hombre, da por sabido que esa persona no es consciente de su condición, sin saberlo realmente. Roquentin se aparta a sí mismo del consuelo de ser entendido, simplemente para mantener una distancia de superioridad y, tal vez, de seguridad. Y para él todos los actos humanos son distracciones de la fragilidad inherente a vivir.Pero Roquentin no se aparta del todo. Todavía necesita pertenecer, estar, como un voyeur, un observador del delirio. Roquentin no renuncia a estar entre la gente, no se disocia enteramente, sino que hasta las busca. No por nada Roquentin frecuenta restaurantes y museos de arte y la biblioteca en donde siempre lo espera el Autodidacta. Roquentin necesita sentir que su existencia es valorada por otros, y a través de la valoración de otros él puede construir su propia valoración. No obstante a veces sus sentimientos lo traicionan, determinados hechos lo hacer asomar su cabeza de su coraza sin significado y lo ponen en evidencia ante la vulnerabilidad humana. Su preocupación por el señor Fasquelle desmonta el estoicismo y su indiferencia camusiana. ¿O acaso solo quería subir la escalera hasta el supuesto cadáver del señor Fasquelle por puro morbo...?Otro ejemplo que lo deja en evidencia es su conflictiva relación con Anny (una vez que dejó su trabajo como historiador, que le permitía adueñarse de identidades ajenas). Él mismo reconoce que esta puede ser la única razón de su existencia, pero no solo se queda en ese reconocimiento, sino que además demuestra caer en la ilusión humana de la que tanto se burlaba en otros, siendo simultáneamente consciente de ella:"¿Por qué estoy aquí? ¿Y por qué no habría de estar? (...) Dentro de cuatro días veré a Anny; esta es, por el momento, la única razón de mi vida. ¿Y después, cuando me haya dejado? Bien sé lo que espero, solapadamente: espero que no me deje nunca más. Sin embargo debería saber que Anny jamás aceptará envejecer en mi presencia".Y aquí caemos en la relación humano-objeto. El objeto es, existe, cuando se lo contempla y se lo considera. Cuando Roquentin contempla un objeto, este adquiere una significación humana, mayor a su significado meramente físico, y esto lo abruma. Roquentin es un hombre vacío, un muerto que respira, y cuando un objeto inanimado adquiere un significado mayor al de su naturaleza inicial debido a un agente externo (como puede ser su consideración), se ve superado por esa nueva realidad, que sobrepasa sus limitaciones existenciales, puesto que su ser no posee la esencia y sustancia necesaria para hacerle frente a su construcción personal sobre aquel objeto. Dicho de otra manera, el objeto acrecienta su condición de rebeldía, su absurdismo."Los objetos no deberían tocar, puesto que no viven. Uno los usa, los pone en su sitio, vive entre ellos; son útiles, nada más. Y a mí me tocan; es insoportable. Tengo miedo de entrar en contacto con ellos como si fueran animales vivos".La consciencia es en donde radica la sustancia de existir. Proclamamos en el lenguaje la existencia de variados objetos sin ser conscientes de ellos, pero una vez que nos detenemos a pensar en nuestras palabras, todo a nuestro alrededor adquiere un carácter insoportable. Nosotros le damos consciencia a los objetos, y ellos nos devuelven nuestro reflejo. Roquentin los busca para sentirse en la palma de su mano, su existencia, hasta que la sustancia del objeto en cuestión supera la suya propia. Y aun peor, cuando a un objeto se le concede aquella "consciencia", su absurdo se vuelve más intenso, y la Náusea retorna."Tampoco es bueno mirar demasiado a los objetos. Los miro para saber qué son y tengo que apartar rápidamente los ojos".Una vez que Roquentin se despoja de todo, o mejor dicho, pierde todo, él se considera finalmente libre. Pero no es una libertad de no yacer en una celda sucia de una cárcel remota esperando un juicio del que es imposible salir como inocente, sino es una libertad casi pesimista, deprimente y desesperanzadora. Una libertad como sinónimo de vacío, absurdo y suicidio:"Soy libre, no me queda ninguna razón para vivir, todas las que probé aflojaron y ya no puedo imaginar otras".Aquí le pongo un freno a lo dicho sobre Roquentin. Roquentin detesta su existencia desde la primera página de su diario, pero su modo de buscar estar rodeado de gente (restaurantes, sexo vacuo, su relación con el Autodidacta, hasta su rol como historiador) ¿no es una manera de reafirmar su existencia? No tiene el carácter reclusivo que uno esperaría de una persona hastiada. Roquentin persigue la consideración hacia él de otras personas, a fin de que esas mismas consideraciones revitalicen su condición de persona, aun así si esa revitalización acrecienta su sensación de estar de más, de anormalidad. En resumen, Roquentin es un hipócrita: aborrece su existencia pero busca permanecer ligado a ella; y no solo eso, sino que tiene como objetivo su reanimación. Le espanta mientras no quiere perderla."Antoine Roquentin no existe para nadie. ¿Qué es eso: Antoine Roquentin? Es algo abstracto. Un pálido y pequeño recuerdo de mí vacila en mi conciencia. Antoine Roquentin... Y de improviso el Yo palidece, palidece, y ya está, se extingue".Llegamos al principio. Su diario, sus memorias. Su rol de historiador le permitía conferir vida a personas muertas. Las resucitaba en páginas y se sentía en compañía (falsa, por supuesto, otra ilusión). Pero, y ahora que no tiene a nadie, ¿qué pasaría si se autodocumentase? Roquentin llegó a la última y mayor de las ilusiones, y a la más desesperada manera de seguir siendo una persona que vale en una humanidad en la que en realidad nada tiene valor intrínseco y nada debería ser como es. Roquentin se vuelve, si es que tiene sentido utilizar esta palabra, autoconsciente. Se vivifica a sí mismo a partir de su miseria, a través de su escritura. Se exterioriza, busca transmitirse a sí mismo de una sustancia que no tiene. Se viste y rellena con el contenido que sale de su mismo existir, aunque sepa que eso está cerca de la violación de lo natural, la inexistencia."La verdad es que no puedo soltar la pluma; creo que voy a tener la Náusea y mi impresión es que la retardo escribiendo. Entonces escribo lo que me pasa por la cabeza".Y acá surge el problema. ¿Cómo puede autorevitalizarse si está casi vacío, si carece de suficiente sustancia propia? Escribir un libro de ficción, para él, podría ser un modo de vivir en otros a través de su escritura. Un refugio y quizá una fuente de vida que se dota a sí mismo a partir de personas inexistentes. Esta ironía, o podría decirse este elegante y discreto humor, forma parte de la esperanza que tanto rechazaba Roquentin al principio de su diario, y que no hizo más que llevarlo a la reafirmación de su absurdo. La creación como escape, como una ¿contra? de la falta de sentido. Cuando Roquentin crea, esas creaciones gozan de un sentido."... una historia que no pueda suceder, una aventura. Tendría que ser bella y dura como el acero, y que avergonzara a la gente de su existencia".Quizá Roquentin haya logrado llegar al sentido de su pequeño papel en la historia y el tiempo, quizá no deba buscar más y haya encontrado la fórmula de la eterna juventud. Mientras tanto, esto nos deja, a nosotros, sus lectores del mundo real, en una habitación fría y vacía, en medio de paredes húmedas y telarañas rotas, sentados adelante de un escritorio con un único papel sucio sobre él, e iluminado por una vieja lámpara titilante se puede leer, si nos acercamos lo suficiente, en tinta negra y seca: "¿Por qué elegimos vivir?"

  • Ahmad Sharabiani
    2018-12-05 15:57

    602. Nausea, Jean-Paul SartreNausea (French: La Nausée) is a philosophical novel by the existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, published in 1938. It is Sartre's first novel and, in his opinion, one of his best works. Antoine Roquentin – The protagonist of the novel, Antoine is a former adventurer who has been living in Bouville for three years. Antoine does not keep in touch with family, and has no friends. He is a loner at heart and often likes to listen to other people's conversations and examine their actions. He settles in the fictional French seaport town of Bouville to finish his research on the life of an 18th-century political figure. But during the winter of 1932 a "sweetish sickness," as he calls nausea, increasingly impinges on almost everything he does or enjoys: his research project, the company of an autodidact who is reading all the books in the local library alphabetically, a physical relationship with a café owner named Françoise, his memories of Anny, an English girl he once loved, even his own hands and the beauty of nature. Even though he at times admits to trying to find some sort of solace in the presence of others, he also exhibits signs of boredom and lack of interest when interacting with people. His relationship with Françoise is mostly hygienic in nature, for the two hardly exchange words and, when invited by the Self-Taught Man to accompany him for lunch, he agrees only to write in his diary later that: "I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself." He can afford not to work, but spends a lot of his time writing a book about a French politician of the eighteenth century. Antoine does not think highly of himself: "The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so." When he starts suffering from the Nausea he feels the need to talk to Anny, but when he finally does, it makes no difference to his condition. He eventually starts to think he does not even exist: "My existence was beginning to cause me some concern. Was I a mere figment of the imagination?". ...عنوانها: تهوع؛ استفراغ؛ نویسنده: ژان پل سارتر؛ (نیلوفر) ادبیات فرانسه؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: سال 1987 میلادیعنوان: تهوع؛ نویسنده: ژان پل سارتر؛ مترجم: جلال الدین اعلم؛ تهران، ادبیات فرانسهعنوان: تهوع؛ نویسنده: ژان پل سارتر؛ مترجم: امیرجلال الدین اعلم؛ تهران، نیلوفر، 1365، در 309 ص، ادبیات فرانسه قرن 20 معنوان: استفراغ؛ مترجم: علی صدوقی؛ در 211 ص؛ عنوان: استفراغ؛ مترجم: احمد بهروز؛ تهران، بنگاه مطبوعات قائم مقام، سال نامشخص، در 260 ص؛ ا. شربیانی

  • Sarah
    2018-12-12 12:50

    Fear, anxiety, suffering, freedom, and self-deception― that's the human condition right there for you folks.Nothing matters.Life is meaningless. Life is pointless. Life is empty.I'm going to have to reread this again to fully wrap my head around it.

  • MJ Nicholls
    2018-12-04 12:02

    An insufferable philosophical classic, penned in nauseating and styleless first person prose. Roquentin is an arrogant buffoon whose existential woes are trivial, arch and pathetic. No attempt to create a novel has been made, apart from using that most lazy of constructs, the diary, opening the whole work out to a meandering thought-stream of excruciating random dullness. It isn’t accessible to confused students, unless those students happen to be aesthetes on private incomes writing dull historical theses, who like lifeless tracts of flat and horrible prose and can tolerate being bashed over the head with dated postwar ideas. I think that was Sartre’s intention, anyway, I might be wrong. But I get it. Yes. OK. Thanks. Life is horrible, etc, free will is illusory, etc etc. Got it. I read up to p50. That’ll do. The novel was never a useful medium for complex philosophical ideas, except perhaps Camus’s The Stranger, but that was under one hundred pages, and so tolerable. Absolute tish-pock.

  • Ian
    2018-12-09 16:05

    A Novel of Ideas?Much criticism of "Nausea" describes it as a novel of ideas, as if this is necessarily a pejorative term.To me, the term (as used in this negative context) implies that the characters are a mere mouthpiece for ideas or ideologies, and that they simply argue with each other until a resolution is reached (or not).I question whether this characterisation applies to "Nausea", and would like to make a case for an alternative perspective on the novel in this review.Ironically, to argue my case, I have to delve into the metaphysical concerns of the novel.I'll concentrate on Sartre's text and keep my comments to a minimum, so that you can get an impression of the tone of the novel. It was a lot more amusing than I had expected.Adventures in Front of a Metaphysical Green ScreenThe novel (started in 1930, published in 1938) needs to be interpreted in the context of:* the philosophy of Husserl (as evaluated by Emmanuel Levinas and read by Sartre between 1930 and 1936), * Heidegger's "Being and Time" (published in 1928 and read by Sartre from 1940 to 1941), * Heidegger's "An Introduction to Metaphysics" (published in 1935 in the same issue of a journal as an essay of Sartre's), and * the development of Sartre's own philosophy in a number of books up to and including "Being and Nothingness" (published in 1943).It's been suggested that the novel reflects the intuitive investigation of various ideas that Sartre would later document more analytically in "Being and Nothingness". Iris Murdoch called it "the instructive overture to Sartre's work." If this is correct, then it means that he continued to dwell on these ideas for at least five years before publishing the book that still best defines his existentialist philosophy.While reading the novel, I wondered whether it explored concepts defined by Heidegger in "Being and Time". However, it's known that Sartre hadn't read "Being and Time" by the time he finished "Nausea". It's more likely that the ultimate source of some of these ideas was Husserl, rather than Heidegger.It's still possible that Sartre was familiar with Heidegger because he might have read secondary materials or encountered other people's responses to its initial publication. (Late in the novel, Sartre alludes to the question asked in the first paragraph of Heidegger's "The Fundamental Question of Metaphysics": "Why is there something rather than nothing?") The Idea (AKA the Thing)I mention Heidegger and Husserl, because the novel purports to be about "the Idea" (singular) rather than being a novel of ideas (plural).If I've understood it correctly, the Idea is akin to Heidegger's concepts of Being, Dasein and Existence, precursors of which can be found in Husserl.For the protagonist, Antoine Roquentin, the Idea is like a Thing or, more philosophically, it's like "Thingness" or "Thinginess". This Thing almost takes on a character of its own and, in doing so, takes on the character of Roquentin in an adversary sense (or so he thinks). Roquentin describes it in terms of an illness or a virus (hence his nauseous response, what he calls his "sweet disgust"):"Something has happened to me: I can't doubt that any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything obvious. It installed itself cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little awkward, and that was all...and now it has started blossoming."Up to this point, he has been reasonably self-confident, if not particularly gregarious. Like Sartre himself, he was a man alone. He sets out to understand the Thing, as well as himself in contrast to it:"I should like to understand myself properly before it is too late."Journal of ExistenceRoquentin records his self-analysis in a journal that takes the shape of an intellectual autobiography. This allows Sartre to read Roquentin's mind. Apart from some dynamic set pieces, in which Roquentin reacts to other people and the environment, the novel focuses on Roquentin's internal struggle. It is particularly impressive, if you have a metaphysical bent and are prepared to suspend disbelief.There's a frequent playful or comic undertone to the journal. At times, it reminded me of a 1950's B-movie ("The Thing from Another World"), in which the Thing was the alien, the enemy, the bad guy. The Thing seems to embody all that threatens Roquentin philosophically or existentially:"Things are bad! Things are very bad: I've got it, that filthy thing, the Nausea. And this time it's new: it caught me in a cafe...then the Nausea seized me, I dropped on to the bench, I no longer even knew where I was; I saw the colours slowly spinning around me, I wanted to vomit. And there it is: since then, the Nausea hasn't left me, it holds me in its grip."Later, he describes the Thing as a "big white mass":"And the IDEA is there, that big white mass which so disgusted me then.""Now I am alone. Not quite alone. There is still that idea, waiting in front of me. It has rolled itself into a ball, it remains there like a big cat; it explains nothing, it doesn't move, it simply says no. No, I haven't had any adventures."A Mere Figment of the ImaginationThe Thing seems to threaten Roquentin's sense of himself:"My existence was beginning to cause me serious concern. Was I a mere figment of the imagination?"Not only was the existence of his self under threat, but so was his past, his memories:"The true nature of the present revealed itself: it was that which exists, and all that was not present did not exist. The past did not exist. Not at all."Still, paradoxically, the self owes its own existence to and forms part of the Thing:"The thing which was waiting has sounded the alarm, it has pounced upon me, it is slipping into me, I am full of it. - It's nothing: I am the Thing. Existence, liberated, released, surges over me. I exist."Roquentin is part of Heidegger's Dasein. Yet, he clings to his sense of self or separate identity. He's not ready to abandon Descartes' subject or cogito, even if he has come to hate mankind and the rest of the world:"My thought is me: that is why I can't stop. I exist by what I think...and I can't prevent myself from thinking. At this very moment - this is terrible - if I exist, it is because I hate existing. It is I, it is I who pull myself from the nothingness to which I aspire: hatred and disgust for existence are just so many ways of making me exist, of thrusting me into existence. Thoughts are born behind me with a feeling of giddiness, I can feel them being born behind my head...If I give way, they'll come here in front, between my eyes - and I go on giving way, the thought grows and grows and here it is, huge, filling me completely and renewing my existence." Roquentin remains indebted to Descartes, while trying to embrace aspects of Heidegger's philosophy:"I am, I exist, I think therefore I am; I am because I think that I don't want to be...I exist because that is my right. I have the right to exist, therefore I have the right not to think..."...therefore, I have the right not to exist...“The Thing, C’est Moi”Roquentin's consciousness has stumbled into some form of nihilism or absurdity, while trying to reconcile with the Thing and Nausea."I was just thinking that here we are, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence, and that there's nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.""Objects are not made to be touched. It is much better to slip between them, avoiding them as much as possible. Sometimes you take one of them in your hand and you are obliged to drop it as quickly as possible...so this is Nausea...Now I know: I exist - the world exists - and I know that the world exists. That's all. But I don't care. It's strange that I should care so little about everything: it frightens me. It's since that day when I wanted to play ducks and drakes. I was going to throw that pebble, I looked at it and that was when it all began: I felt that it existed.""I am in the midst of Things, which cannot be given names. Alone, wordless, defenceless, they surround me, under me, behind me, above me. They demand nothing, they don't impose themselves, they are there...I push open a gate, I go through, airy existences leap about and perch on the treetops...I should so like to let myself go, to forget, to sleep. But I can't, I'm suffocating: existence is penetrating me all over, through the eyes, through the nose, through the mouth...And suddenly, all at once, the veil is torn away, I have understood, I have seen.""The Nausea hasn't left me and I don't believe it will leave me for quite a while; but I am no longer putting up with it, it is no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is me."The Thing has won, it has conquered Roquentin, as it has all other existents. Dare I say, it becomes him.The Very Stuff of ThingsRoquentin has realised that the Thing is actually something, rather than nothing (even if he doesn't know why):"If anybody had asked me what existence was, I should have replied in good faith that it was nothing, just an empty form which added itself to external things, without changing anything in their nature. And then, all of a sudden, there it was, as clear as day: existence had suddenly unveiled itself. It had lost its harmless appearance as an abstract category: it was the very stuff of things, that root was steeped in existence. Or rather the root, the park gates, the bench, the sparse grass on the lawn, all that had vanished; the diversity of things, their individuality, was only an appearance, a veneer. This veneer had melted, leaving soft, monstrous masses, in disorder - naked, with a frightening, obscene nakedness."A Heap of ExistentsThe epigraph to the novel is a quote from Celine:"He is a fellow without any collective significance, barely an individual."This might well describe the nihilist Roquentin. He was neither complete as an individual, nor did he form part of his community.So Roquentin investigates the social and political relationship between individuals, only to find that, knowingly or not, all people are affected by the existence of the Thing:"We were a heap of existents inconvenienced, embarrassed by ourselves, we hadn't the slightest reason for being there, any of us, each existent, embarrassed, vaguely ill at ease, felt superfluous in relation to the others. Superfluous: was that the only connexion I could establish between those trees, those gates, those pebbles?...Each of them escaped from the relationship in which I tried to enclose it, isolated itself, overflowed. I was aware of the arbitrary nature of these relationships, which I insisted on maintaining in order to delay the collapse of the human world of measures, of quantities, of bearings; they no longer had any grip on things. Superfluous...And I - weak, languid, obscene, digesting, tossing about dismal thoughts - I too was superfluous...I was superfluous for all time...The word Absurdity is now born beneath my pen; a little while ago, in the park, I didn't find it, but then I wasn't looking for it either, I didn't need it; I was thinking without words, about things, with things...Without formulating anything clearly, I understood that I had found the key to Existence, the key to my Nausea, to my own life. In fact, all that I was able to grasp afterwards comes down to this fundamental absurdity...But I should like to establish the absolute character of this absurdity...I, a little while ago, experienced the absolute: the absolute or the absurd."What differs between people is the level of recognition of the absurd.The Contingency of ExistenceNausea is the recognition that humanity, the world and life are merely contingent, that they are superfluous, that they are not meant to exist, that there is no reason for them to exist."The essential thing is contingency. I mean that, by definition, existence is not necessity. To exist is simply to be there; what exists appears, lets itself be encountered, but you can never deduce it...contingency is not an illusion, an appearance which can be dissipated; it is absolute, and consequently perfect gratuitousness. Everything is gratuitous, that park, this town, and myself. When you realise that, it turns your stomach over and everything starts floating about...; that is the Nausea.""I was all consciousness of its existence. Still detached from it - since I was conscious of it - and yet lost in it, nothing but it...Existence is not something which allows itself to be thought of from a distance; it has to invade you suddenly, pounce upon you, weigh heavily on your heart like a huge motionless animal - or else there is nothing left at all.""Existence everywhere, to infinity, superfluous, always and everywhere; existence - which is never limited by anything but existence...existence is a repletion which man can never abandon.""I was not surprised, I knew perfectly well that it was the World, the World in all its nakedness which was suddenly revealing itself, and I choked with fury at that huge absurd being. You couldn't even wonder where it all came from, or how it was that a world should exist rather than nothing. It didn't make sense, the world was present everywhere, in front, behind. There had been nothing before it. Nothing. There had been no moment at which it might not have existed. It was that which irritated me; naturally there was no reason for it to exist...But it was not possible for it not to exist. That was unthinkable: in order to imagine nothingness, you had to be there already, right in the world, with your eyes wide open and alive; nothingness was just an idea in my head, an existing idea floating in that immensity; this nothingness hadn't come before existence, it was an existence like any other and one which had appeared after a great many others."The Pale ConsciousnessIt's interesting to think of Sartre's fictionalisation of Roquentin's internal life as if he is actually no more than a creature of fiction. This passage is even more pregnant with meaning, when you imagine or recognise its metafictional connotations:"Antoine Roquentin exists for Nobody. That amuses me. And exactly what is Antoine Roquentin? An abstraction. A pale little memory of myself wavers in my consciousness. Antoine Roquentin...And suddenly the I pales, pales and finally goes out...Lucid, motionless, empty, the consciousness is situated between the walls; it perpetuates itself. Nobody inhabits it any more. A little while ago somebody still said me, said my consciousness. Who?...The consciousness exists like a tree, like a blade of grass. It dozes, it feels bored. Little ephemeral existences populate it like birds in branches. Populate it and disappear. Forgotten consciousness, forsaken between these walls, under the grey sky... And this is the meaning of its existence: it is that it is a consciousness of being superfluous. It dilutes itself, it scatters itself, it tries to lose itself on the brown wall, up the lamp-post, or over there in the evening mist. But it never forgets itself; it is a consciousness of being a consciousness which forgets itself. That is its lot."Perhaps a character in a novel exists only temporarily and contingently in the mind of a reader. We readers mess with the minds of literary characters. We are the characters' Thing.If you want to read the definitive novel about the Thing, make sure it's this one! It's a comic stripped bare by existentialists. Marvel-lous!Albrecht Dürer - Melencolia I (Sartre originally named this novel "Melancholia" after this engraving)SOUNDTRACK:(view spoiler)[Ethel Waters - "Some of These Days"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SK7Dt...Sophie Tucker - "Some Of These Days" (1927)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3heCS...The Beatles - "Till There Was You" (At Royal Variety Performance)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRc0p..."...our favourite American group, Sophie Tucker""Are You a Group?"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2VhT...Sonny Rollins - "Till There Was You"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_Mef...The Smithereens - "Till There Was You"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZuFxJ... 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  • mai ahmd
    2018-12-08 19:47

    عندما كتب ساتر روايته الاولى التي اشتهرت تحت عنوان «الغثيان»، وكان قد اسماها في البداية «تأملات في الصدفة»، عرضها على رفيقة حياته سيمون دوبوفوار، التي وجدتها مملة ولا تتضمن عنصر التشويق، أعاد سارتر صياغتها قبل ارسالها الى الناشرالفرنسي «غاليمار»، لكن لجنة القراءة رفضتها واعتبرتها غير ذات شأن.مما أصابه بالإحباط الشديد والاكتئاب الا أنه قرر التصرف بشكل عملي هذه المرة ملتمسا من صديقه، شارل دولان، التوسط لدى الناشر، غاستون غاليمار. واقترح الناشر تعديلات وتغييرا للعنوان إلى «الغثيان».وهكذا ظهرت للوجود الرواية المؤسسة لشهرة جان بول سارتر، فحصدت النجاح الجماهيري المنقطع النظير !الغثيان ليس بالكتاب السهل القراءة لأنه يحوي فلسفة سارتر الوجودية وجاء ذلك متمثلا في شخصية بطل الرواية السيد أنطوان , تبدو الكتابة في المئة الأولى مملة وعبثية وحديث نفس لا رابط بين فقرة وأخرى , تضج بالتأمل في التفاصيل الصغيرة , التفكير الذي لا يتوقف عقل يكاد أن ينفجر , تشغله الأيادي , الحجارة المقذوفة في بركة ماء صورا في السقف , دوائر صلبان ,,الرؤى لا تتوقف ,يدخل مكتبة يتأمل في اللوحات يكتب تفاصيل الوجوه يحدثها هذا التأمل الذي شغل بطل الرواية أوصله لمرحلة من الغثيان ,الغثيان نتج عن الملل من عبثية الوجود الإنساني يتوقع أنطوان أن حل مشكلته لربما يكمن في الإلتقاء بصديقته آني لكن حين يجدها لا يجدها!فحالها لم يكن يختلف عنه كثيرا ,,يقول سارتر في رائعته الغثيان ما أشد ما أحسني بعيدا عنهم , من على هذه الرابية يخيّل إليّ أنني أنتمي إلى جنس آخر إنهم يخرجون من المكاتب بعد يوم عملهم , ينظرون إلى البيوت والحدائق نظرة راضية ويفكرون بأنها مدينتهم , مدينة برجوازية جميلة , إنهم غير خائفين , وهم يحسون بأنهم في بيوتهم ! إنهم لم يروا قط إلا الماء المستأنس الذي يسيل من الصنابير ,وإلا النور الذي ينبع من المصابيح حين يضغطون على المفتاح , وإلا الأشجار الهجينة التي تُسند بالمناشير , إنهم يرون الدليل مئة مرة كل يوم , على أنّ كل شيء يتم بصورة آلية , وأنّ العالم يطيع قوانين ثابتة لا تتغير , إن الأجسام المتروكة في الفراغ تسقط جميعا بالسرعة نفسها , والحديقة العامة تغلق كل يوم في الساعة الرابعة !وأن الرصاص يذوب عند الدرجة 335 و أن آخر ترام يغادر أوتيل دوفيل في الساعة الثالثة والعشرين وخمس د !إنهم مطمئنون , كئيبون يفكرون في الغد أي ببساطة في يوم جديد إن المدن لاتنعم إلا بنهار واحد يعود متشابها كل صباح ولا يفعلون إلا أن يقرعوا له الأجراس أيام الأحد , الحمقى !إنهم يثيرون إشمئزازي !أظن أن هذه الفقرة التي كتبها سارتر على لسان أنطوان تلخص ما أراد سارتر أن يقوله في الغثيان ,ولا أظن أن كل من يقرأ غثيان سارتر سيتصالح معه !إنها قراءة في فلسفة الوجود وهشاشة الإنسان بعين سارتر وليست رواية تبحث فيها عن أحداث

  • Amir
    2018-11-23 18:50

    یکی از شب های خوب زندگیم رو پای این کتاب گذاشتم. شبی که 1 فلاکس چای کنارم بود و تا صبح چای و تهوع!

  • hossein sharifi
    2018-12-06 20:07

    این کتاب را ابتدا به ترجمه ی بسیار بد جناب اعلم خواندم. پر بود از کلمات سخت و نثری که به هیچ وجه خواننده را نمی گرفت. اما اینبار نسخه ای بسیار قدیمی به نام" استفراغ" به ترجمه جناب صدوقی پیدا کردم. ترجمه ی آن به مراتب بهتر بود. همچنین در چند قسمت، بالاخص در فصل آخر ترجمه ی جناب اعلم سانسور و حذفیاتی بود که در این کتاب بطورکامل آورده شده بود.در هنگام خوانش کتاب، نثر به گونه ایست که خود را در جای شخصیت اصلی داستان گذاشته و انگار با او در شهر و کافه و کتابخانه قدم میزنید. کم کم صداهایی توی سرتان، حرف های تو در تو آنقدر زیاد شده که تهوع گرفته و دوست دارید روکانتن" شخصیت اصلی داستان" را از بین برده تا شاید از این درد تهی بودن رهایی یابد.*این کتاب را فقط زمانی که حوصله ی زیادی دارید بخوانید ! بشدت می تواند خسته کننده و اعصاب خورد کن باشد.Some of these days You will miss me honey اگزیستانسیالیسم چیست؟ وجود و هستی هر چیز اهمیت بیشتری نسبت به دلیل وجود آن دارد. همه ی ما غوطه ور در وجود جهان و موجودات آن هستیم. کافی است که ما کمی در اشیایی که با آنها سر و کار داریم بنگریم. اینکه حقیقت وجودی انسان چگونه است ، سوالی نیست که بشر بتواند آن را با عقل خود پاسخگو باشد. پس تنها راه رهایی از این درگیری و تنها راه نجات انسان، ایمان به خداست. که این را اگزیستانسیالیسم دینی می نامند . انسان در این زندگی با دنیایی کاملا توضیح ناپذیر روبرو است. در همین کتاب، در بخشی روکانتن (شخصیت اصلی کتاب) خبری را درمورد پیدا شدن جسد کودکی میدهد که قبل از به قتل رسیدن به او تجاوز شده است. این را سارتر به عنوان تاکیدی بر توضیح ناپذیر بودن دنیا بیان میکند. این جهان برای کسی که می اندیشد، اضطراب و آشوب درونی بوجود خواهد آورد.درین دنیا تنها عقل و منطق حاکم نیست، بلکه به هیچ دردی نیز نمیخورد.گفته شده است ، در میان کتبی که سارتر به رشته ی تحریر درآورده، "استفراغ" از همه بیشتر پیچیدگی های فلسفی دارد. دراین کتاب شما یادداشت های شخصی به نام آنتوان روکانتن را میخوانید . روکانتن شخصیتی است منزوی و در شهر کوچکی تنها و سرگردان. یک پژوهشگری که در مورد شخصی کتابی مینویسد اما خود را کم کم در آشوب و بحران وجودی می بیند. چندی نمیگزرد که او پی میبرد، وجودش بی فایده است. حتی هنگامی که تصمیم میگیرد خودش را از بین ببرد میگوید : این خون من بر روی سنگ ها و استخوان های چون دندان سپید من بر اعماق خاک، چیزی است که تا ابدیت بی فایده خواهد ماند. برای اولین بار هنگامی که در ساحل دست های خود را به ریگ های کوچک میزند، دچار حسی متافیزیکی میشود. حسی که از بیان آن عاجز است ."یک‌جور دل‌آشوبه شیرین مزه بود، چقدر ناگوار بود! و از سنگریزه می‌آمد، مطمئنم از سنگریزه گذشت و آمد توی دست‌های من. بله، خودش است، درست خودش است. نوعی تهوع توی دست‌ها"همه چیز از نظرش زاید و بیهوده و غیر ضروری است و موجب تهوع می شود حتی خودش. خودش را زاید می بیند که اگر ناپدید هم می شد ناپدید شدنش احساس نمی شد, چرا که وجودش در جهان واقعی به هیچ رو واجب نبود.او که تحقیق در مورد یک شخصیتی تاریخی را کاری عبث و بیهوده می داند، وقتی که خود وجودی عبث است و بیهوده، چه فایده که در مورد شخصی بنویسد که او نیز سالهاست مرده. پس دست به نوشتن یک رمان یا چیزی شبیه به خاطرات خود میزند. خلق یک اثری هنری که شاید با آن بتواند به شناخت بهتری از "من" خویشتنش برسد. این احساس متافیزیکی او و حسی که آن روز در ساحل داشت کم کم زیاد شده و آنرا عامل تهوع خود در برخورد با اشیا میداند. او اشیا را جانوران زنده ای می پندارد.:اشیا نباید لمس بکنند, زیرا زنده نیستند. آدم به کارشان می گیرد, سر جایشان می گذارد, میانشان زندگی می کند: آنها مفیدند, همین و بس. ولی آنها مرا لمس مى‏کنند و این تحمل نکردنى است.مى‏ترسم با آنها تماس پیدا کنم. انگار جانوران زنده‏اند"این حس بجایی میرسد که خود را نیز چون شیئی می پندارد و حتی صورت خود را در آینه نمی تواند از جسمی بی جان تمیز :"هیچ چیز از این چهره نمی فهمم. مال دیگران معنایی دارد، مال من نه. حتی نمی توانم حکم کنم که زیبا است یا زشت. به گمانم زشت است. چون این طور به ام گفته اند. اما این در من اثری ندارد. به راستی حتی یکه می خورم که کسی بتواند یک همچو کیفیتی به آن نسبت دهد، انگار یک مشت خاک، یا پاره سنگی را زیبا یا زشت بنامیم"برای انسانی که خود را منزوی و به دور از دیگران می بیند، دیگر چهره اش چیزی جز گوشتی بی جان نیست. چه اهمیتی دارد که نفس بکشد و یا نکشد.اما چیزی که تهوع روکانتن را برای مدتی ساکت میکند، شنیدن قطعه ای موسیقی است Some of these days You will miss me honey آن هنگام که این نظم نت های موسیقی را میشنود، نظمی که وجود آن غیر قابل دسترس است سبب میشود که به فراغت برسد . نتها موسیقی مرگ وجودشان را با خودشون حمل می کنند انها از وجود خالین. نتهای کوتاه ومنظم ومرتب پشت سر هم می ایند وسریع تاثیری شدید می گذارند با انکه سریع نابود می شوند باید مرگ انها را بپذیرد چون اگر جلویشان را بگیرد فقط صوت مبتذل وبی حال چیزی دیگری نیستن. کم کم گرم می شود از نظرش موسیقی از زمان دیگریست. همیشه تازه می ماند هیچ چیز روی نوار فولادی تاثیر نمی گذارد صدا درون انهاست .موسیقی است که کالبدهای مبهمشان را می شکافد وبر فرازشان میرود .خیال داشتم خودم را از بین ببرم. لااقل یکی از این هستی های بیهوده و زاید را از پا به در آورده باشم. اما مرگ من هم زیادی بود. جسدم، خونم روی این سنگ ریزه ها، میان این نباتات، این باغ خندان زیادی بود. گوشت پوسیده ام توی زمینی که آنرا در خودش گرفته بود، استخوان های پاک شده و پوست کنده ی تمیز مثل دندانهایم نیز، زیادی بودند؛ من برای ابدیت زیادی بودم!ص 155چیزی که منتظرم بود، اکنون بر من فرود آمده و در درون من جریان دارد و ازآن لبریزم؛ آن چیز خود «من» هستم که زندگی خلاص شده و رهایی یافته ای برای من آورده. من وجود دارم.زنده هستم. چقدر شیرین و چقدر آرام است. گویی هوایی است که تکان میخورد. اینها برخوردهای همه جانبه ای است که پایین می آید و گم میشود. آب کف آلودی توی دهنم است. آنرا فرو می برم. توی گلویم می لغزد و قلقلکم می دهد و دوباره توی دهنم بوجود می آید. دایما توی دهنم مردابی کوچک از آب سفید رنگ دارم که بزبانم میخورد. این مرداب زبان، گلو و بازهم خود من هستند.دستم را می بینم که به روی میز دراز میشود. این دست وجود دارد. این من هستم. انگشت های دست باز می شود و شکم برآمده اش را نشان میدهد: حالت حیوان وارون شده ای را دارد. انگشت ها پاهای آن حیوان است، از حرکت دادنشان مثل پاهای خرچنگی که به برو افتاده باشد، سرگرم میشوم. خرچنگ مرده است. پاهای حیوان پیچیده شده و توی دستم بر میگردد. من ناخن های اورا که زنده نیست می بینم. حالا دستم برگشته و پشت خودش را نشان می دهد، پشتی نقره فام و اندکی رخشان که اگر مو های روی بند انگشتها نبود مثل پشت ماهی میشد. دستم را حس میکنم. دو حیوانی که کف دستهایم تکان میخورند من هستم .ص 120

  • رؤیا (Roya)
    2018-12-05 14:48

    اولین خوانش من از سارتر که باید آن را در رده پیچیده همراه با تهوع و لذت طبقه بندی کنم. پیچیده گی نه از جهت درک نشدن که از جهت "هست" بودن و معنایی که همیشه فکر را درگیر میکند. تهوع از جهت همذات پنداری با هرخط و احساس پشت کلمات و لذت برای اینکه بدانی در احساس پوچی و افسردگی تنها نبوده ای...تهوع داستان مردی مورخ و دانش پژوه است که در شهری دورافتاده و بدون هیچ خانواده و دوستی در افسردگی و تنهایی زندگی میکند و به دنبال نوشتن کتابی تاریخی است. زندگی در سطح به شکلی اتوماتیکی و بدون اراده در جریان است و در عمق تمام ذرات وجود برای فهمیدن "هستی" و ترس ناشی از "هست بودن" در حرکت و جنبش هستند. تناقضی که تصادم آنها در لحظات موجب تهوع میشود."در سطح داشتم به صورتی خودکار پولهایم را می شمردم. در عمق همه افکار نامطبوعی بی تحرک مانده اند که شکلی از سوالهای فرموله نشده, حیرت های صامت غیرقابل توضیحی را دارند که شب و روز رهایم نمی کنند. فکر آنی, عمر تلف شده ام. و باز در عمق بیشتر تهوع اطرافم, مثل سپیده دمی محجوب."به باور سارتر و با تکیه بر مکتب اگزیستانسیالیسم, زندگی به خودی خود بی معناست و خارج از کنترل و اراده و این انسان است که به زندگی معنا میبخشد یا تصمیم میگرد که معنا ببخشد. ولی من هنوز در شک هستم که راوی داستان که آدمی مرفه, سفر کرده و روشنفکر است با وجود تمام توانایی ها و قدرت تفکری که "هست" بودن را در نهایت برایش مشخص میکند به معنا بخشیدن این هستی باور داشته باشد. آنجه که روکانتن از آن رنج میبرد به نظر تنهایی عمیقی است که همیشه او را دنبال کرده و با وجود همین تنهایی او قادر به نه یادآوری گذشته میباشد و نه امیدی برای آینده. این هستی او را ترسانده است و بودن را برایش پیچیده تر کرده است. تنها زمانی که او به شوق آمده است وقتی است که عشق قدیمی اش آنی را بعد از سالها ملاقات کرده و در این ملاقات است که هیجان صحبت کردن به او برمیگردد و نیاز به ماندن. "فقط از اینکه او را ترک می کنم غمگین نیستم, از اینکه به انزوای خود برگردم می ترسم" ....."از خواب می پرم. نصف شب است. آنی شش ساعت پیش از پاریس رفته. هم اکنون کشتی دیگر در دریاست....""من آزاد هستم: واقعا دیگر هیچ دلیلی برای زندگی کردن ندارم, هر یک از چیزهایی را که برایشان کوشیدم به مانعی خورده و دیگر قادر نیستم بیشتر در مورد آنها چیزی تصور کنم."تهوع رمانی است قابل تامل اما نه برای هر خواننده ای. به نظر که برای درک بهتر مفهوم باید که از تفکر یا جستجویی مشابه برخوردار بود. رد پای بی خدایی و پوچی در جز به جز کتاب موج میزند و افسردگی حال هردقیقه اش میباشد. در توصیف تهوع به شکل سارتر باید که روزی عادی و روحیه ای مقاوم داشت که بتوان با او تا به آخر ماند."نیمه اول شکست خوردم. خواستم نیمه دوم را هم بازی کنم و دو مرتبه شکست خوردم, همه بازی را باختم. اما ضمنا آموختم که انسان همیشه بازنده است. فقط پست فطرت ها, آنها هستند که فکر می کنند برنده شده اند. حال می خواهم مانند آنی عمل کنم, می خواهم بیشتر از خودم, زندگی کنم. بخوابم, بخورم. به آهستگی موجود باشم, مانند این درختان, مثل چاله آب, مانند نیمکت قرمز تراموای. تهوع فرصتی کوتاه برای نفس کشیدن به من داده. ولی می دانم که دوباره برمی گردد."

  • Alex
    2018-11-20 20:04

    The thing with existentialism is that once you admit there's no meaning, you have to admit that there's no meaning, and people get freaked out about it. I don't know why. I was raised atheist and I've never thought there was any meaning and it seems okay to me; maybe it's only scary if you used to think there was a meaning and suddenly you find out there isn't one. Listen, I'll tell you the meaning of life.1) Be nice2) have funThat's it.Neither of those things occur to Antoine Roquentin in this book, so instead he spends 100% of his time freaking right the fuck out. (Sartre felt that we have to create our own meaning, which both is and isn't what I've done here, and his protagonist doesn't get around to it.) The Nausea is what he gets when he thinks about how nothing means anything, which happens often. There are no rules, he thinks. There is no organization. "Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance," he says and by the way here's a super fun game for you single people: pick a quote from this book for your next Bumble date and see if you can say it and still get laid. Here are some more for you.- "I marvel at these young people: drinking their coffee, they tell clear, plausible stories."- "Things are bad! Things are very bad: I have it, the filth, the Nausea."- "'If you look at yourself too long in the mirror, you'll see a monkey.' I must have looked at myself even longer than that; what I see is well below the monkey, on the fringe of the vegetable world, at the level of jellyfish."- "For a moment I wondered if I were not going to love humanity. But, after all, it was their Sunday, not mine."- "We were a heap of living creatures, irritated, embarrassed at ourselves, we hadn't the slightest reason to be there, none of us, each one, confused, vaguely alarmed, felt in the way in relation to the others."- "What if something were to happen? What if something suddenly started throbbing?"That last one might work. Here's another thing Roquentin says: "I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And then, anything, anything could happen." But the thing with this book is that anything doesn't happen, and while I understand that it's sortof the point that nothing happens, that doesn't change the fact that nothing fucking happens, and we have a word for that: the word is boring.I mean - if this is your first existential freakout, you might get more out of it. I feel like maybe this should be read during college, when people get pretty fired up for existential freakouts. If you're already a grown-up, it's frankly too late for this kind of malarkey. Listen: life is meaningless. You don't need to be here. It's fine. Be nice. Have fun.

  • Luís C.
    2018-11-21 15:01

    Sartrien's novels went a little fashion but Nausea remains for me one of the best novels of the twentieth century. He accompanied me once and I will (surely) stopped to read it again. It allows to identify, when we like the philosophy of Jean-Paul Sartre, a character who observes the world and who are disgusted, so it seems vain. He's trying to make sense of his existence, to understand why he lives but it comes to a sad fact and without end. It's not easy to read, it turns off and gives the cockroach, but it allows to put words to the pain of living that one can sometimes feel. Still it's out... 

  • Vikas Lather
    2018-12-11 20:05

    Deeply unsettling novel reflecting the hideous emptiness of our existence. "I want to leave, to go somewhere where I should be really in my place, where I would fit in . . . but my place is nowhere; I am unwanted.”

  • Trevor
    2018-11-30 20:09

    I can’t really tell you why I picked this up now – I just decided I needed to read some fiction. Perhaps I also thought I should ease my way gently back into fiction with something written by a philosopher. The more I think about it, the more this book seems like an awfully strange one to pick – but I seemed quite determined at the time to start reading it. It would be nice to then be able to say – and this was just the book I needed to read right now, this was just the thing - as if there were some guiding principle to the universe directing our hands and demanding we read things in their proper order, at their proper time. But I can't say that.The characters in this book that are the most interesting (and I’m going to use the word ‘character’ very loosely here) aren’t necessarily the ones you might think they are going to be when you start. I mean, obviously enough the narrator has to be important here – we are in his head so everything we see is filtered through that. But I came away thinking that the Self-Taugh Man is probably the most important character other than the narrator. The character you might think ought to be more important than anyone here would be Anny – but although there are lots of lovely passages about her, I didn’t find them coming together as nearly as interesting as I had hoped they might. The hand holding in the cinema, an hour before his train leaves at one point, was really a delight to read, but the conversation in Paris I found harder to really believe. The other really interesting characters aren’t really characters at all – they are the nausea and existence. For Sartre our being proceeds our essence. That is, you don’t really have an eternal essence, as such, despite our brains perhaps being composed to imagine we do – but rather we are what we become - so we don't 'remain' but rather change and this is what is fundamentally true about us. Quite a few times we hear that characters are relied upon to remain the same - but this is never to be trusted, I think. This idea of us becoming and changing presents us with lots of paradoxes and none of these are necessarily all that easy to explain. A lot of this is about the main character, Roquentin, seeking to understand his own essence, I think. He is writing a history, but isn’t entirely sure why he is. And he is worried – not least because he is starting to think of himself that he is a bit more flighty than he would like to consider himself to be. Also, and I think this is very important, he basically thinks of himself as a vegetable – yeah, I know, you weren’t expecting that, were you? The introduction to this book makes a lot of his interaction with a chestnut tree at one point during the novel – but I think this is mostly interesting because of his identification with vegetation that occurs throughout the book. The idea of him vegetating (I’ve no idea if that works in French, by the way, but it echoed throughout the book for me anyway) kept recurring. And when he is with the chestnut tree he basically isn’t with the tree at all, but rather he says he is the chestnut tree. Well, except he identifies more with the roots of the tree than with the tree itself – stuck in the ground, hard and black. That sense of dark and of being trapped and of vegetating – it could easily be badly overdone (over-written), but it didn’t feel overdone here at all. I thought it was quite clever, to be honest. And then, after he leaves the chestnut tree and after he has fully identified with it, that is when (surprise, surprise) he decides to leave Bouville and go to Paris - to change his life and therefore to be someone else. Here the psychology is particularly interesting – that he was trapped and vegetating until he identified with something rooted to the ground and it was only then that he could see a way out, a way to move.The nausea is interesting too – this really is a character in the book in so many ways. A recurring illness that we can never tell is physical, but one that seems to be a force that makes him move, that occurs when his life is set to change. I liked this book much more than I thought I was going to. Again, if I didn’t think I was going to enjoy it, why the hell did I read it? But it was interesting in so many ways. The story of the Self-Taught Man is the most interesting piece here – and much more interesting today, I suspect, than when it was written. We have become obsessed with paedophilia – it is our new blasphemy. Part of the reason I avoid films is because I'm sick to death of characters (often priests) who have a horrible secret... So, the idea that Roquentin stands up for the Self-Taught Man – especially after despising him for being a humanist – is really interesting. The other people are presented, and as they are, as simply bullies. Look, the idea of someone sexually assaulting children is repulsive in the extreme, I get it – but self-righteousness and violent attacks on people who are essentially defenceless are two things I find at least equally repulsive. I would like to think I would have done much as what Roquentin did here in the library, but I worry I may not have ever had the courage.Like I said, this proved to be a much more interesting book than I thought it was going to be – you know, given the title - not quite 'vomit' but close enough. I’ve read some of Sartre’s short stories before and thought they were a bit daft, to be honest – too keen to make a philosophical point and so, better to have been written as philosophy than as fiction – but I thought this was clever and understated and a good read generally.

  • Edward
    2018-12-06 18:16

    As literature, Nausea is a remarkable character study and exploration of the ideas of existentialism. Sartre is a talented writer, capable of some truly striking prose, and the novel succeeds at drawing the reader deep into the mind of Roquentin in a manner that is intimate and engaging. But I can't say that I find these ideas as a basis for thought all that compelling. Sartre seems to have seized upon a common yet admittedly powerful experience - that peculiar sensation of sudden strangeness which can impose itself on otherwise familiar objects and concepts, accompanied by the simple striking fact of existence without explanation - and imbued this experiential phenomenon itself with a special profundity, from which he has extrapolated an entire philosophy. There is a logical failure in privileging such experiences due to their ephemeral yet strikingly salient quality, as being somehow representative of a deeper truth than can be obtained through ordinary rational thought. Such a thing would necessitate the existence of a sort of mind/brain dualism, where the mind thorough some undefined (and undemonstrated) metaphysical ability may occasionally transcend itself, and be allowed to glimpse the hidden nature of reality. I compare this kind of thinking to the practitioner of transcendental meditation, or the avid taker of psychedelics, who has experienced a profound oneness with everything, and is therefore convinced that all things in the universe must in fact share a single consciousness.The fact is that the brain is a strange and complex organ, prone to weirdness, and possessing a propensity for illusion and occasional quirky states of mind. Often these experiences can be generated deliberately through certain practices or through the use of pharmaceuticals. And so while such phenomena can offer valuable new perspectives, any revelations are necessarily limited to the nature of experience itself; they cannot break through the barrier of the mind to expose hidden knowledge about external reality.The attitude, then, of the Existentialist (in this case Roquentin), becomes increasingly myopic as this special information is granted primacy at the expense of other equally (and arguably more) valid experiential data. His mind obsessively explores the repercussions of this extrapolation from the single, logically unsound point, and it is clear to the reader that this view of reality is simply not tenable with respect to ordinary experience. I personally cannot claim any great familiarity with existentialism in the wider sense, but the ideas presented in Nausea, aside from offering some interesting fodder for contemplation, seem too abstract and dissociated from reality to form the basis of a particularly robust or productive philosophical system.

  • Vit Babenco
    2018-12-04 16:15

    The protagonist is a captive of loneliness and time.“This sun and blue sky were only a snare. This is the hundredth time I've let myself be caught. My memories are like coins in the devil's purse: when you open it you find only dead leaves.”For him there are no expectations and no changes in life… the world passes him by…“I can no longer distinguish present from future and yet it lasts, it happens little by little…”So the protagonist becomes nauseated with reality and his purposeless existence turns into a mental torment. “I was just thinking that here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.”It comes as no surprise… Even God couldn’t find out a reason for his existence: “And God said unto Moses, I am that I am,” Exodus 3:14.There is one paradox though: If existence is meaningless then any philosophy is useless…

  • Elizabeth Cárdenas
    2018-11-14 19:09

    I have to admit that I read this book in the summer between finishing high school and starting college - a time when I felt sure everything I'd been taught was irrelevant. When I read Nausea, I thought and acted like I had discovered the holy grail! I told all my friends (all 3 of them) they HAD to read it. I fell in love with this book with the intensity only a young person in their late teens can. (Evidently not all young people feel this way. My best friend still blames me ruining her summer by insisting that she read it.)It isn't necessarily that the book revealed all the secrets of the universe to me, but it did start a whole summer of revelations. In the process of having to explain why I thought this book was so great I starting Thinking (capital "t" not a mistype) rationally and realizing that a sound argument is not merely a matter of volume, wit and "touches!" I read more Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir along with other modern philosophers. I also began establishing my philosophy.Philosophy itself was a new concept to me. Not because I didn't know about it, but because I had a vague idea that philosophy had pretty much began and ended with the Greeks. OK, maybe I would even add St. Augustine - but by then I was already "outgrowing" the Catholic Church. I was primed for new ideas.Am I an existentialist or a Marxist now? The only way I can answer that is that once one has completed 10 or so years beyond 19, experience teaches you that life is too complicated to be able to define yourself by one or two words that are loaded with dynamite. All that I feel sure about is that I still conciser myself a feminist and I still have enough optimism to call myself a liberal.I do recommend this book - if for nothing else to challenge your ideas. If for you, as for me, it turns out to be the middle of a wheel with many spokes, you are in for a lot of research. I give it 4 stars for being challenging and thought-provoking.

  • Foad
    2018-11-18 11:56

    «حيرت انگيزتر از هر حيرت انگيز، اين است كه هست ها هستند.»هایدگر«می دانی چقدر همه چیز وحشت انگیز است؟ وجودی که فکر می کند! یعنی چه اندیشیدن؟ چطور یک "چیز" می تواند بیندیشد؟ آجر، کتاب مثلاً یا هر جسم دیگری، فکر کن یک شیئ بیندیشد. یا مثلاً زاییده شدن از بی جان. از یک قطره که از مجرای ادرار خارج می شود، حیات و خودآگاهی ایجاد می شود. چطور زن های آبستن وحشت نمی کنند که در شکمشان چیزی حمل می کنند که ادراک می کند؟ چیز زنده باید بیشتر، هزاران هزار بار بیشتر وحشت انگیز باشد تا یک جسد. یک جسد همانی است که باید باشد. وقتی این جسد راه می رود و حرف می زند و یک جوری هم رفتار می کند که انگار همه چیز طبیعی است و هیچ چیز عجیبی وجود ندارد، این است که وحشت انگیز است. مردم از مرده ی متحرک می ترسند، خب این ها که در خیابان راه می روند چیستند به جز مرده های متحرک؟! وجود مساوی است با وحشت. عدم است که طبیعی است. آن چیزی که آدم انتظار دارد، ظلمت محض در همه ی عالم است. می دانی اولین واکنش کودک کر مادرزاد که بعد از پنج سال درمان می شود و برای اولین بار می تواند بشنود چیست؟ از وحشت به گریه می افتد و مثل دیوانه ها گریه می کند. همین طور اولین واکنش کودک نابینایی که برای اولین بار ببیند. این است "کمالات وجودی". بینایی یک کمال وجودی است، که کودک را از وحشت به گریه می اندازد. شنوایی یک کمال وجودی است، که کودک را از وحشت به گریه می اندازد. نوزادی که به دنیا می آید، نه به خاطر جهان مادی پستی که واردش شده (که شعرای دوزاری ما مدام در شعرهایشان می گویند) بلکه به خاطر هجوم این "کمالات وجودی" است که از وحشت به گریه می افتد: اولین بار صدا می شنود، اولین بار نور می بیند، اولین بار با پوستش چیزی حس می کند، وحشت می کند و هر کس بخواهد آرامش کند، بیشتر وحشت می کند. وحشت می کند از این که کسی در جهان هست که می خواهد آرامش کند. وحشت می کند از این که چیزی وجود دارد.»

  • Lea
    2018-11-19 17:57

    "I was just thinking," I tell him, laughing, "that here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing."I smile at him. I would like this smile to reveal all that he is trying to hide from himself.It’s really hard for me to rate this book, to write a review or even form an opinion. I kinda feel I’m not old, educated or wise enough to appreciate it fully, and this is one of those books I would be highly interested to re-read at the different time-periods in my life, to see the effect it has on me over time. Reading Nausea was a unique experience, and definitely, mind-blowing read that left me in awe. At times the Sartre’s writing reminded me of The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge and The Magic Mountain, and I was delighted to find out that Rilke's Notebooks of Malte, one of my favorite books, was one of the main influences for Nausea. Jean-Paul Sartre is painfully honest in character of Roquentin, a lost introverted man in his thirties, tormented by loneliness, anguish, doubt and above all, Nausea, the pain of existing. The book starts with notes in his diary, and in the first few words, we see that he is the real truth seeker, the kind that values truth more than conformity, the kind that would rather suffer and know the truth than live in a lie in the painless state of existing.The best thing would be to write down events from day to day. Keep a diary to see clearly—let none of the nuances or small happenings escape even though they might seem to mean nothing. And above all, classify them. I must tell how I see this table, this street, the people, my packet of tobacco, since those are the things which have changed. I must determine the exact extent and nature of this change.This is what I have to avoid, I must not put in strangeness where there is none. I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you're always looking for something. We soon learn about his loneliness, and he can’t really find meaning, identity in relation to other human beings, or in contributing to the society, things that regular human being finds shelter and comfort running from their own feelings of meaningless and the absurdity of life.I live alone, entirely alone. I never speak to anyone, never; I receive nothing, I give nothing.I was neither father nor grandfather, not even a husband. I did not have a vote, I hardly paid any taxes: I could not boast of being a taxpayer, an elector, nor even of having the humble right to honour which twenty years of obedience confers on an employee. My existence began to worry me seriously. I don't want any communion of souls, I haven't fallen so low.I particularly liked Sartre’s witty, honest and satirical comments on man-woman romantic relationships, and love and sexuality are underlying themes in the novel, buried under existentialism and absurdism. It can be the defense mechanism of intellectualization and rationalization of love, but I laughed out loud, as well in some other parts of the novel, in admiration that someone verbalized the part of the truth that we all subconsciously know, but refuse to talk or think about.I don't listen to them any more: they annoy me. They're going to sleep together. They know it. Each one knows that the other knows it. But since they are young, chaste and decent, since each one wants to keep his self-respect and that of the other, since love is a great poetic thing which you must not frighten away, several times a week they go to dances and restaurants, offering the spectacle of their ritual, mechanical dances. . .After all, you have to kill time. They are young and well built, they have enough to last them another thirty years. So they're in no hurry, they delay and they are not wrong. Once they have slept together they will have to find something else to veil the enormous absurdity of their existence. Still ... is it absolutely necessary to lie?Odd feelings Roquentin experiences in the nauseated consciousness are nothing more than confrontation with bare existence and nothingness. He displays obvious cynical mockery and even disgust for himself and for the world, but in the same way, under the feeling of emptiness and deep philosophical debates he has with himself, there is profound interest and concern for the fate of the individual person and longing for meaning. His search for meaning is turned within himself, as he attempts to find meaning in his own inner life and experience. In the void of his inner experiences, he loses track of time, space and himself in the processes of derealization and depersonalization in archaic visions. But he learns that neither the experience of the outer world or contemplative deep inner life can’t give meaning to existence. He tries to give life meaning by writing a book, and reviving old passion with his longtime lover, but is faced with ultimate failure each time. Reconciliation is found in the acceptance of contingency and absurd, concepts in which he finally feels liberated but not fulfilled nor happy.And without formulating anything clearly, I understood that I had found the key to Existence, the key to my Nauseas, to my own life. In fact, all that I could grasp beyond that returns to this fundamental absurdity. Absurdity: another word; I struggle against words; down there I touched the thing. But I wanted to fix the absolute character of this absurdity here. A movement, an event in the tiny coloured world of men is only relatively absurd: by relation to the accompanying circumstances.The essential thing is contingency. I mean that one cannot define existence as necessity. To exist is simply to be there; those who exist let themselves be encountered, but you can never deduce anything from them. I believe there are people who have understood this. Only they tried to overcome this contingency by inventing a necessary, causal being. But no necessary being can explain existence: contingency is not a delusion, a probability which can be dissipated; it is the absolute, consequently, the perfect free gift.I am free: there is absolutely no more reason for living, all the ones I have tried have given way and I can't imagine any more of them. I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.I am bored, that's all. From time to time I yawn so widely that tears roll down my cheek. It is a profound boredom, profound, the profound heart of existence, the very matter I am made of.Expressed absolute boredom and emptiness, and will to sacrifice comfort for freedom reminded me of Madame Bovary, a character that I could heavily relate when I read that books years ago. I could definitely relate to Roquentin, and I think he is a level of epic character, like Dostoevsky characters, that live inside in each one of us. With Nausea, I had a liberating feeling when you read a book for the first time and see someone talk about the parts of you that you never shared with anyone because you thought no one would understand. Even thought Rouqentin had shattering feelings of loneliness in the chaos of existence, I think he made a lot of people like me feel less alone, and I applaud Sartre for that. The more I think about Nause the more I see what a masterpiece of literature it is. Hope to return to this book, and see years from now what are the parts that stuck with me the most, because I’m sure there will be many.

  • Ε.Χ.Γ. ⚓
    2018-12-09 19:13

    "Γεννιούνται μέσα μου πρωτόγνωρες εικόνες, σαν εκείνες που σχηματίζουν μέσα από τις αναγνώσεις τους οι άνθρωποι που δεν ταξίδεψαν ποτέ· ονειρεύομαι με τις λέξεις, αυτό είναι όλο."