The world of explanations and reasons is not the world of existence.
The simplest, most indefinable quality had too much content, in relation to itself, in its
No one has any rights; they are entirely free, like other men, they cannot succeed in not
I was entirely conscious of its existence … How long will this fascination last?
Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.
The smile of the trees, of the laurel, meant something; that was the real secret of existence.
Things—you might have called them thoughts—which stopped halfway, which were forgotten, which forgot what they wanted to think and which stayed like that, hanging about with an odd little sense which was beyond them. That little sense annoyed me: I could not understand it, even if I could have stayed leaning against the gate for a century; I had learned all I could know about existence. I left, I went back to the hotel and I wrote.
Random quotes from an excerpt of Nausea by Jean Paul Sartre. I’ll try to read the novel, but I’m convinced anything that has been translated is largely unreadable, which really stinks.