Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.8 AVERAGE
3.8 AVERAGE
actually not the worst thing ever. I had to check how old he was when he published it because this is the most I'm sixteen and too smart for my own good and this is deep book ever, and a grown man of 27 (he finished it when he was 31) wrote it.
it's not that bad, it's sartrian existentialism in an half baked proustian prose with interwar jazzy veneer. really what foreigners have in mind when they picture this black and white chain-smoking cigarette image of french people talking in bar.
some details were very interesting, the role of colonial empire, the critical portrait of pre 68 french education and academia, the casual sex, the gender dynamics.
note: I have to address the fact that if I'm tough on this book, it's because I see a lot of myself in it lol
it's not that bad, it's sartrian existentialism in an half baked proustian prose with interwar jazzy veneer. really what foreigners have in mind when they picture this black and white chain-smoking cigarette image of french people talking in bar.
some details were very interesting, the role of colonial empire, the critical portrait of pre 68 french education and academia, the casual sex, the gender dynamics.
note: I have to address the fact that if I'm tough on this book, it's because I see a lot of myself in it lol
dark
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Some of the most anxiety-swelling fiction I've ever read. An absolute must-read in existentialist fiction.
(major spoilers!)
Struggling to battle the Nausea, a phenomenon in which everyday objects and people lose their distinguishable features to him, the narrator turns to a few coping mechanisms that fail him one by one: insisting on the significance of his work, engagement with art, writing, self-harm, even just establishing geometric relations between objects... Eventually he must accept the Nausea as truth, and his perception of life up until that point as a mirage.
At a few points, the narrator spirals into stream-of-consciousness writing where phrases, ideas, and symbols are repeated ad nauseum, situating themselves in a slightly different context each time on the page, between different letters, words, and punctuation marks. The presentation here underscores the absurdity of language itself. Sartre shows that what is true of objects (at their core they are monstrous obstinate masses) is also true of splotches of ink on a page: defined by man-made relations to one another, half-animated only by the subjective perceptions of an agent desperately convincing themselves that it all means something. The words turn, turn, and morph into one another monstrously, and it as equally lulling as it is captivating. I felt genuine dread reading some of these passages.
At the worst of the narrator's affliction, when the Nausea takes over him, the apathetic descriptions of everything around him are devastatingly oppresive: his world is completely shattered. The narrator's contempt, disgust, and desperation contrast with the insensibility of the Nausea. The alternation between neutral observations and expressions of despair paint a picture of utter derealisation. The duality shows that the narrator is at once a neutral observer of the world, and inescapably human, and this terrifies him. Flipping from page to page, you understand the cosmic magnitude his toil, and it pulls your eyes away from each word, because you might be scared of facing it.
His derealisation is sold to you with comparisons between stimuli and child-like imagery. An outstretched hand is a worm, a bleeding hand is an upside-down crab. Reality through the narrator's eyes melts away into a child's horrifying waking dream.
I loved the symbol of Rollebon, the character in the narrator's writing. As he struggles to find the purpose in his work and life, the narrator realises that if Rollebon was dead in his mind, then he truly was dead. In this sense, the two men were anchoring each other to reality. Rollebon gave him a purpose, researching him to create the narrator's book, and in these words Rollebon's existence was temporarily 'immortalised'. This shattering of the last goal in life that the narrator had eases us into the Nausea taking over every aspect of his being.
If I had to offer some criticism, some passages where the narrator goes about life can run a little stale. In these sections he intersperses views that nihilistically deny the perceived meaning others have found in their own pursuits. He disdains the moral deficiencies of panhumanism, the self-delusion in courtship (if the aim is sex and pleasure, what is the purpose of this ritual?), the self-righteousness of the once-successful departed who are 'immortalised' in legacy, the silent contempt between egoistic men, and the eventual formlessness of love in matrimony. While these targets are worth shooting for in a novel like this, some drag on for too long for what is essentially respite between the harder-hitting moments. Also, his longing for his ex-lover is an underutilised symbol and is absent for large parts of the novel.
Metanarratively, Nausea (the book) is a reminder of the dangers of societal alienation and a complete detachent from personal commitments, relationships, and goals that ground us in reality. When it comes to serious matters like suicide, depression, and, self-harm, we shouldn't simply try to "think" our way out-at least not if we live such a lonesome life as the narrator. Don't let "sound" logic and developing a worldview in the pursuit of Truth lead to awful personal outcomes.
Nausea represents to me the idea that barely anything even needs to happen in a novel for it to be evocative, interesting, and philosophically remarkable.
(major spoilers!)
Struggling to battle the Nausea, a phenomenon in which everyday objects and people lose their distinguishable features to him, the narrator turns to a few coping mechanisms that fail him one by one: insisting on the significance of his work, engagement with art, writing, self-harm, even just establishing geometric relations between objects... Eventually he must accept the Nausea as truth, and his perception of life up until that point as a mirage.
At a few points, the narrator spirals into stream-of-consciousness writing where phrases, ideas, and symbols are repeated ad nauseum, situating themselves in a slightly different context each time on the page, between different letters, words, and punctuation marks. The presentation here underscores the absurdity of language itself. Sartre shows that what is true of objects (at their core they are monstrous obstinate masses) is also true of splotches of ink on a page: defined by man-made relations to one another, half-animated only by the subjective perceptions of an agent desperately convincing themselves that it all means something. The words turn, turn, and morph into one another monstrously, and it as equally lulling as it is captivating. I felt genuine dread reading some of these passages.
At the worst of the narrator's affliction, when the Nausea takes over him, the apathetic descriptions of everything around him are devastatingly oppresive: his world is completely shattered. The narrator's contempt, disgust, and desperation contrast with the insensibility of the Nausea. The alternation between neutral observations and expressions of despair paint a picture of utter derealisation. The duality shows that the narrator is at once a neutral observer of the world, and inescapably human, and this terrifies him. Flipping from page to page, you understand the cosmic magnitude his toil, and it pulls your eyes away from each word, because you might be scared of facing it.
His derealisation is sold to you with comparisons between stimuli and child-like imagery. An outstretched hand is a worm, a bleeding hand is an upside-down crab. Reality through the narrator's eyes melts away into a child's horrifying waking dream.
I loved the symbol of Rollebon, the character in the narrator's writing. As he struggles to find the purpose in his work and life, the narrator realises that if Rollebon was dead in his mind, then he truly was dead. In this sense, the two men were anchoring each other to reality. Rollebon gave him a purpose, researching him to create the narrator's book, and in these words Rollebon's existence was temporarily 'immortalised'. This shattering of the last goal in life that the narrator had eases us into the Nausea taking over every aspect of his being.
If I had to offer some criticism, some passages where the narrator goes about life can run a little stale. In these sections he intersperses views that nihilistically deny the perceived meaning others have found in their own pursuits. He disdains the moral deficiencies of panhumanism, the self-delusion in courtship (if the aim is sex and pleasure, what is the purpose of this ritual?), the self-righteousness of the once-successful departed who are 'immortalised' in legacy, the silent contempt between egoistic men, and the eventual formlessness of love in matrimony. While these targets are worth shooting for in a novel like this, some drag on for too long for what is essentially respite between the harder-hitting moments. Also, his longing for his ex-lover is an underutilised symbol and is absent for large parts of the novel.
Metanarratively, Nausea (the book) is a reminder of the dangers of societal alienation and a complete detachent from personal commitments, relationships, and goals that ground us in reality. When it comes to serious matters like suicide, depression, and, self-harm, we shouldn't simply try to "think" our way out-at least not if we live such a lonesome life as the narrator. Don't let "sound" logic and developing a worldview in the pursuit of Truth lead to awful personal outcomes.
Nausea represents to me the idea that barely anything even needs to happen in a novel for it to be evocative, interesting, and philosophically remarkable.
Che imbarazzante sentimento è ritrovare pezzi di se tra delle pagine.
E che tenerezza questo caro Autodidatta
E che tenerezza questo caro Autodidatta
informative
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
N/A
This was pretty thick stuff and I don't think I'm quite a good enough reader yet to really get all I can out of something like this. I'd like to give it another shot in the future.
"i am drawn, irrevocably, towards this death which is perhaps mine as well. each instant appears only as a part of a sequence. i cling to each instant with all my heart: i know that it is unique, irreplaceable- and yet i would not raise a finger to stop it from being annihilated...i grasp at each second, trying to suck it dry: nothing happens which i do not seize, which i do not fix forever in myself, nothing, neither the fugitive tenderness of those lovely eyes, nor the noises of the street nor the false dawn of early morning: and even so the minute passes and i do not hold it back, i like to see it pass."
existing is paradoxical. everything matters. nothing matters. being in the present is impossible. we exist in a recent past, constantly chasing the present.
"have never before had such a strong feeling that i was devoid of secret dimensions, confined within the limits of my body, from which airy thoughts float up like bubbles. i build the memories with my present self. i am cast out, forsaken in the present: i vainly try to rejoin the past: i cannot escape."
this book reads like a stream of consciousness. it's transcendental. floating somewhere out of reach. sickened with the passing of time. nausea. fleeting contempt. wandering. cursed to be a passive witness.
"this is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he loves surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live is own life as if he were telling a story. but you have to choose: live or tell."
existing is paradoxical. everything matters. nothing matters. being in the present is impossible. we exist in a recent past, constantly chasing the present.
"have never before had such a strong feeling that i was devoid of secret dimensions, confined within the limits of my body, from which airy thoughts float up like bubbles. i build the memories with my present self. i am cast out, forsaken in the present: i vainly try to rejoin the past: i cannot escape."
this book reads like a stream of consciousness. it's transcendental. floating somewhere out of reach. sickened with the passing of time. nausea. fleeting contempt. wandering. cursed to be a passive witness.
"this is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he loves surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live is own life as if he were telling a story. but you have to choose: live or tell."
mysterious
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Se esiste un libro difficile da descrivere, è proprio questo.
Antonio Roquentin ci apre la sua anima e la sua mente, parlandoci di ciò che prova.
La Nausea è una sensazione ricorrente che lo pervade, che non gli permette di godere dei piaceri della vita.
L'occupazione del momento (la composizione di un libro storico) abbandona presto il suo fascino e Antonio non ha più un motivo per vivere.
Neanche il ritorno del suo più grande amore lo rinvigorisce, finchè non decide di cambiare aria, di trasferirsi nuovamente nella sua vecchia casa.
Tutto il percorso di Antonio è descritto in maniera dettagliata e discorsiva, in modo da coinvolgere il lettore.
Ho ritrovato molto di me stessa in lui, e mi hanno fatto riflettere molto i suoi discorsi.
Un romanzo che bisogna leggere a tutti i costi; assolutamente da non perdere.
Antonio Roquentin ci apre la sua anima e la sua mente, parlandoci di ciò che prova.
La Nausea è una sensazione ricorrente che lo pervade, che non gli permette di godere dei piaceri della vita.
L'occupazione del momento (la composizione di un libro storico) abbandona presto il suo fascino e Antonio non ha più un motivo per vivere.
Neanche il ritorno del suo più grande amore lo rinvigorisce, finchè non decide di cambiare aria, di trasferirsi nuovamente nella sua vecchia casa.
Tutto il percorso di Antonio è descritto in maniera dettagliata e discorsiva, in modo da coinvolgere il lettore.
Ho ritrovato molto di me stessa in lui, e mi hanno fatto riflettere molto i suoi discorsi.
Un romanzo che bisogna leggere a tutti i costi; assolutamente da non perdere.
90% of this book is just the average meanderings of a guy gaining consciousness for the first time in his 30s, interspersed randomly with some parts that actually make sense and are interesting. Absolutely insufferable protagonist for the most part, please spare me