I finished Sartre’s Nausea. Being that the main character is an existentialist Frenchman, he seemed more insane and depressed than I could ever relate to, leaving me with almost a pile of ideas rather than a complete book.
To paraphrase what I got out of it:
“Three o’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.”
“An existant can never justify the existence of another existant.”
“Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.”
“The past is a landlord’s luxury. Where shall I keep mine? You don’t put your past in your pocket; you have to have a house. I have only my body: a man entirely alone, with his lonely body, cannot indulge in memories; they pass through him. I should not complain: all I wanted was to be free.”
“This is what I thought: for the most banal event to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he lives surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.”
But more importantly, the main character is asked who he is writing for, and whether he would write if alone on a desert island. With that, I still wrestle.