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

Yes, that's it, that's just itùa sort of nausea in the hands.

am not in the habit of telling myself what happens to me, so I cannot quite recapture the succession of events, I cannot distinguish what is important

I am quietly slipping into the water's depths, towards fear.

Still, somehow I am not at peace: I have been avoiding looking at this glass of beer for half an hour. I look above, below, right and left; but I don't want to see it.

All that is nothing new; I have never resisted these harmless emotions; far from it. You must be just a little bit lonely in order to feel them, just lonely enough to get rid of plausibility at the proper time. But I remained close to people, on the surface of solitude, quite resolved to take refuge in their midst in case of emergency. Up to now I was an amateur at heart.

live alone, entirely alone. I never speak to anyone, never; I receive nothing, I give nothing.

I would like to see the truth clearly before it is too late.

Shall I have to go off again, leaving my research, my book and everything else unfinished? Shall I awake in a few months, in a few years, broken, deceived, in the midst of new ruins?