Nauseated by Nausea - or Why do this to myself?

I just finished re-reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s “Nausea” and felt I just had to jot something down about it. I’ve read this book a couple times over the years, and I’m always left wondering - why I would read such a book? It is an apt title, for even as I read it, I am nauseated - body and mind. I suppose the main reason that I have read (and re-read) the book is that so many times in my life I have felt like Roquentin. Ach! Before I go there, let me tell you a bit about the book.

“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.” Pg. 38

And so goes Sartre's Nobel Prize winning book (1964) Nausea. Many consider this book Jean-Paul Sartre's most important novel, and a “ landmark in existential fiction. ” Sartre is considered one of the most prolific French Existentialist writers of the 20th century. He was skilled as a philosopher, novelist, play-write and critic, ably bridging the gap between the academy and the “lay” person.

The book is the story of Frenchman Antoine Roquentin, a French writer critiquing his existence and surrounding culture in diary form. The main theme of the novel results from Sartre's belief that "existence precedes essence." Roquentin unwittingly differentiates between inanimate objects, or a "being-in-itself," and human consciousness, or a "being-for-itself." For example, when he looks at a bartender's purple suspenders, he is distraught to find that they appear blue in some places. His feelings of Nausea come from moments like this when he realizes that he is creating the essence, or characteristics, of the objects he sees. He understands that color is just an idea, and "purple" just an inadequate word to describe something he has never seen before. He concludes that the essences of objects are just comforting "facades" that hide the unexplainable nakedness of existence. In effect, while studying the root of a chestnut tree, Roquentin realizes that the root first existed and then he attributed an essence to it by describing it as "black."

Nausea takes us into the depths of our souls and concludes that nothing is there. It's a cold-hearted existence locating meaning through our own device, and then watching them flow into the endless vat of meaninglessness. This is clearly felt in Roquentin's sexual dalliances. They are detached experiences that are a result of mutual “needs” devoid of real purpose or depth. There is no sharing of self, because ultimately there is no self to share, only presence. Roquentin tries desperately to make sense of his world, and escape this nausea, but seems appalled at the useless ways in which the characters he observes hypocritically deal with their own lives.

I must say Nausea left me, well, nauseated. However Sartre does an artistic job of pulling you into his world and gives us a soulful description of his brand of existentialism, as felt in the following quote.

“I had always realized it; I hadn't the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant or a microbe, My life put out feelers towards small pleasures in every direction. Sometimes it sent out vague signals; at other times I felt nothing more than a harmless buzzing.” Pg. 84

In Nausea, we are reminded that Sartre and atheistic existentialism clearly recognize the fate of the world apart from god. Nothingness, a cruel existence without purpose, a derived essence of meaning. This book rips the heart out of optimistic humanism, and because of this, and it's soulful inventory on the human condition, it is worth the read. Beware though, you may find some of the words haunting your soul, and extricating you from some of your blind coping mechanisms, and casting you into a canyon of despair. This book is reminiscent of philosophers and writers (and on more than one occasion in my life – me) through the ages that have honestly surveyed their lives, and have come up empty, reminding us that there really is nothing new under the sun.

Despite our great technological advances in the past 100 years, man still searches for meaning on his own terms, only to realize, like Sartre, there is nothing to be found. We have discovered all there is, and in the long haul have bored ourselves to death.

I can't say the book was enjoyable, but I can say it was enlightening, and a reminder that like Ecclesiastes concludes, life under the sun, without a god, or a purpose, is “ meaninglessness, meaninglessness, meaninglessness. ” A lesson I wish I could learn once and for all.