La personne qui me l'avait vendu m'avait dit "Bon courage", je comprends mieux maintenant! Le roman est déprimant au possible et porte bien son nom. ( )

I often select books to read for absurdly capricious reasons. In the case of ‘Nausea’, I picked it up in the library because it stood out as a new acquisition, with the attendant delicious smell of freshly printed ink. I now realise that my sensual enjoyment of the book’s scent as I read was wholly inappropriate in view of its content. Never mind, I didn’t find myself achieving a meeting of minds with it anyway. Roquentin the narrator never quite articulated his sense of nausea to my satisfaction. Perhaps this might be a function of the translation, although I can’t summon the enthusiasm to read the original French. I felt that a fundamental human despair was being grasped at, yet never quite reached. More mundanely, I think this book demonstrates, as I have found, this it is psychologically unhealthy to spend long periods in isolation, studying a very narrow subject. (Being a PhD student can seem like a mental trial.)

Throughout ‘Nausea’, I alternated between reading quickly to get it over with and because I’d hit a section that was powerful and involving. There were a number of the latter, the most notable recounting Roquentin’s meeting with his old flame Anny. I found Anny by far the most interesting character; she appears far more self-aware and articulate than the narrator. To his credit, though, he seems to recognise this. Anny’s explanation of ‘perfect moments’ (surely the French phrase must be prettier) is a powerful one and reminded me quite strongly of a particular friend.

I note that the first paragraph of the introduction to ‘Nausea’ mentions [b:The Stranger|49552|The Stranger|Albert Camus|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349927872s/49552.jpg|3324344], which it did remind me of. I read that in French a decade ago, after a boy I liked raved about it. I enjoyed the experience of reading [b:The Stranger|49552|The Stranger|Albert Camus|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349927872s/49552.jpg|3324344], because the French language makes me happy, however the content left me cold. It’s an even more individualistically masculine book than ‘Nausea’, which likewise left me feeling distant from the narrator. Perhaps it’s harder for a woman to imagine an empty life with no obligations, no evident restrictions, and no-one caring to judge your choices. This was truer still in the 1930s, I expect. During the museum scene Roquentin contemplates privilege and entitlement, but in a narrow way. Anny’s perspective and her dialogue with Roquentin allowed me to get much closer to ‘Nausea’ than I ever managed with [b:The Stranger|49552|The Stranger|Albert Camus|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349927872s/49552.jpg|3324344], which I can’t remember having any female characters at all. Actually, my main conclusion from reading Camus was that the boy who recommended it was a wastrel.

On balance I have nothing remotely profound to say about 'Nausea', so refer you to the serviceable introduction. This book did not inspire me to deep, philosophical thoughts on the nature and meaning of life; I’d rather hoped that it would. ( )

If there is one thing I am grateful for, is having read Sartre thirty years ago and having that awful experience (and its consequences) safely and forever behind me.
Consequences there were, though. The experience messed with my teenage mind, big time, in ways I didn't even realise until much later.
Today, I would recommend his trapped prisoners... oops readers, that they watch that delightful Netflix documentary on the benefits of MDMA for the treatment of PTSD and depression, and I'd call it a day.

This is a classic, and I don't claim to have the tools to give an informed review without a re-reading, which means that I'll probably break my promise to myself and drink the bitter cup. I matured a dislike for Sartre during the years, as I suspect him of a certain degree of autobiographic and intellectual dishonesty, and now I am curious to call myself to task in proving it, or be surprised.
I remember being suspicious of his black list of French intellectuals who were guilty of not fighting the nazi occupation of France.
If there is something I loath more than nazi occupations, it's black-listing intellectuals.
I also remember the bleak look on life that reading existentialists writers' novels infected my young mind with. Probably, the worst offender was my young, tendentially depressed mind, but I haven't forgiven Sartre, nor Simone de Beauvoir yet.
Yes, a re-read is in order. Wish me good luck.

Book 126
Nausea
John Paul Sartre.
Nick Wannan ( )

EM ( )