Nausea

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

Suffering is the origin of consciousness,” Dostoevski wrote

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

want no secrets or soul-states, nothing ineffable; I am neither virgin nor priest enough to play with the inner life.

would have laughed at the stupefaction which appeared on those two childish faces.

The strangest thing is that I am not at all inclined to call myself insane, I clearly see that I am not: all these changes concern objects. At least, that is what I’d like to be sure of.

Why is it not otherwise? Why is it at all? What is this is-ness? Isn’t it simply nothing, or rather Nothingness, the unknowable, indispensable Void? What could be more absurd, “non-rational,” meaningless? The mind of man, which he did not ask to be given, demands a reason and a meaning—this is its self-defining cause—and yet it finds itself in the midst of a radically meaningless existence. The result: impasse. And nausea.

is the feeling of being confronted by a bare existence.

like Hamlet or Julien Sorel, live outside the pages of the books in which they assumed their characters.

"Suffering is the origin of consciousness,"