| View Larger Image | Nausea | Paperbackby Jean-Paul Sartre (Author), Lloyd Alexander (Translator), Richard Howard (Translator)
| List Price: | $13.95 | | Price: | $10.04 | | You Save: | $3.91 (28%) | | | Available: | Usually ships in 24 hours |
| | Binding: | Paperback | | Publisher: | New Directions | | Page Count: | 192 Pages | | Publication Date: | May 23, 2007 | | Sales Rank: | 6,666th |
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FEATURES | - ISBN13: 9780811217002
- Condition: NEW
- Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
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EDITORIAL REVIEWS |
Product Description
The classic Existentialist novel, with a newintroduction by renowned poet, translator, and critic Richard Howard.Winner of the 1964 Nobel Prize for Literature, Jean-Paul Sartre, French philosopher, critic, novelist, and dramatist, holds a position of singular eminence in the world of letters. Among readers and critics familiar with the whole of Sartre's work, it is generally recognized that his earliest novel, La Nausée (first published in 1938), is his finest and most significant. It is unquestionably a key novel of the twentieth century and a landmark in Existentialist fiction.Nausea is the story of Antoine Roquentin, a French writer who is horrified at his own existence. In impressionistic, diary form he ruthlessly catalogues his every feeling and sensation. His thoughts culminate in a pervasive, overpowering feeling of nausea which "spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of our time—the time of purple suspenders and broken chair seats; it is made of wide, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain." Roquentin's efforts to come to terms with life, his philosophical and psychological struggles, give Sartre the opportunity to dramatize the tenets of his Existentialist creed. |
CUSTOMER REVIEWS (Average Customer Rating: 4.0 based on 94 reviews)
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Dated Existentialist Mumbo Jumbo Caca by R. Curbelo (The Bronx)  1 Stars
June 12, 2009
"Now when I say 'I,' it seems hollow to me. I can't manage to feel myself very well, I am so forgotten. The only real thing left in me is existence which feels it exists. I yawn, lengthily."
As do I. Can you imagine reading 178 pages of this folderol? Well I did :-(
I exist, you exist, we exist, the tree exists, the chair exists, the door exists. I get it. What's your point? Simply because a train of thought that was in vogue two or three generations ago has a multi-syllabic label makes it neither interesting nor sophisticated. In fact, the views expressed in Nausea can be downright--forgive me, I cannot resist--nauseating. Maybe that was Satre's point. If so, then he succeeded.
Given the perception created by many reviewers and critics, it would be irresponsible of me not to take a moment to warn the uninformed that Nausea is not a novel. There is no story, no plot, no meaningful character development (unless you count the narrator's sense of nausea over his own existence), no relationship of any depth between characters, and hardly any reason to keep turning the pages.
The narrator, Antoine Roquentin, is an insipid malcontent whose only substantive act is to come to the aid of a child molester. I kid you not.
Nausea has been around since 1938. That's certainly long enough for any book of merit to have at least 100 reviews on Amazon.com. And yet, mine is only the 95th review. I can only surmise that that's a reflection of the small percentage of readers who can trudge through the nauseating pages all the way to the end. Then comes the all-too-natural reluctance for most people to admit they've wasted their time. Combine this with the desire to come across as sophisticated, and voila!, you have a disproportionate number of positive reviews.
I write for the common man (and woman). Don't let the potifications of the philosophical academicians fool you. There is nothing of real substance here.
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A bellyache no amount of Tums can relieve... by Mark Nadja (New York City)  5 Stars
March 19, 2009
*Nausea* is quite simply one of the major touchstones of the "literature of alienation" that so marked the 20th century--a sickness we may have survived but never really recovered from, sort of like a spiritual AIDS.
Sartre's psychologically claustrophobic tale of a youngish historian overwhelmed by existence sounds all the notes of paranoia, pointlessness, disgust, and dread elevated to a pitch of hysterical self-consciousness and over-sensibility that we find in the biographies of the antiheroes of Hamsun and Kafka. The world is not only too much with us--it's suffocating, crushing, and raping us with its overbearing and inescapable sweaty presence.
Of all philosophers who tried it, no one writes a better novel dramatizing his ideas than Sartre--not even Camus, the lesser, in my opinion, as both novelist and philosopher. Roquentin is the perfect foil for Sartre's core "revelation"--the horrible insight that we are free in the most radical sense of all. Free, that is, of everything, including such comfortable "slaveries" as meaning, connection, even identity. In the years to come, Sartre may have softened his position some and even found religion (a.k.a. Marxism), but here, in *Nausea,* he compromises nothing. This is a text such as a prophet crying in the wilderness might have written.
It's an astonishing thing when an author can have you at the edge of your seat, mouth dry, riveted by a philosophical discussion between two characters having lunch in a café or during a pantomime of tawdry misfortune set in a library--but Sartre manages this and much more.
*Nausea* is a sick book about a sick man in a world sick unto death even if it doesn't quite know it. Reading it will likely make you sick, too, or, rather, aware of your illness. It won't cure you of anything but your chronic ignorance.
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A Press Conference with Jean-Paul Sartre by Al B. Moore (Laurel, Mississippi USA) 5 Stars
March 13, 2009
The year is 1938. Jean-Paul Sartre has completed his novel Nausea. His publisher has sent advance copies of the novel to the press in order to prepare them for the large press conference which will coincide with the mainstream release of the novel. The following is an account of that stupendous moment in French history.
After the publisher had finished reciting his usual list of literary clichés, the floor was opened for a general Q&A session. One brave reporter timidly raised his hand. Jean-Paul smiled at him and nodded signaling that he may proceed in asking his question. The reporter cleared his throat and asked, "So the novel doesn't actually have a plot then?" Jean-Paul let out a short laugh and shook his head side to side while saying, "No, no. The novel is outside the realm of having a plot." Jean-Paul then turned to his publisher and whispered, "Plot! How terribly bourgeois!" Another reporter raised his hand and asked, "So... does the novel feature any interesting characters or exciting situations?" Jean-Paul once again had a short laugh and answered, "No, no. I wouldn't want my novel dragged down with any interesting characters or exciting situations." The same reporter then asked, "Well, is it supposed to be a comedy or something then?" Jean-Paul replied, "Most certainly not. Quite the opposite, in fact." The first reporter raised his hand again and asked, "So, the novel's actually supposed to be boring?" Jean-Paul replied, "Basically, yes." A reporter in the back of the room said, "Certain individuals have claimed that this novel is of great philosophical importance. Do you believe that this is true, and if you do then what philosophy does the novel advocate? Also, could you briefly define this philosophy?" Jean-Paul's face glowed slightly as he prepared to answer the question. "What these individuals believe is true. The novel is existentialist in nature. I would define existentialism by... well, it's just best if you read the novel; and then I'm sure you'll understand what it is." The reporter responded by saying "I have read the novel, sir; and I beg your pardon, but I still don't understand what existentialism is." Jean-Paul glanced around the room nervously looking for a sympathetic face. The reporter then went on to say, "Well, sir, what I've gathered from today's press conference is that the novel has no plot, interesting characters, exciting situations, or humor. Also, the `philosophy' in the novel is vague at best. Essentially, this novel is an excuse for pseudo-intellectuals to turn their noses up at the common man and claim that he is `inferior' for not `getting it.'" Jean-Paul cleared his throat and said, "Well... I can see how a certain lack of... Your opinion is not entirely without..." Jean-Paul's publisher, seeing that the author was struggling to answer this pointed question, intervened and said, "We'd like to thank you gentlemen for coming to this press conference, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. Mr. Sartre has an important trip the United States that he must make, and we can't have him missing his boat! Refreshments are available in the lobby; and, once again, thank you for coming."
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Bare and pure. by whj  4 Stars
December 30, 2008
I read this book last 20 years ago during my lunch hours in a busy Greek cafe in downtown LA, and the experience of finding complete solitude in that environment was so extraordinary, and therefore, has never been forgotten. I am glad that I re-read this gem 20 years later in a completely different setting--this time, alone in a room with minimum lighting. It is like seeing things in slow motions with brilliant commentary on life and existence, often sad, but not depressing... rather peaceful actually when you are able to see life in pure and bare form without all the superfluous attachments.
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"Can you justify your existence then?" by John L Murphy (Los Angeles) 5 Stars
December 11, 2008
It's much more droll, often witty, and even poetic in this 1964 translation by Lloyd Alexander (author of the wonderful Prydain Chronicles) than the author's reputation might lead you to expect. Some Gallicentric references escaped me, and a few footnotes would have helped, but this short novel, or perhaps a philosophical meditation elided into hallucinatory, realistic, and jumbled fictions, deserves wide attention. Perhaps existentialism seems dated by other, often French-dominated, schools of thought in the decades since Sartre debuted with this in 1938, but Antoine Roquentin's disgust at the absurdity of our simply being here that nearly any thinking person, if honest, has experienced permeates and energizes these pages. This review cites representative passages that expressed for me this vibrancy.
Poet Hayden Carruth in his helpful introduction notes how if existentialism's a philosophy, it "has been independently invented by millions of people simply
responding to the emergency of life in a modern world." (v-vi) It'd be impossible to film Roquentin's consciousness, but many moments he relates hit you with the immediacy of intimate cinema. Longing to have his own life follow a recurring melody he hears, he contemplates how time suspends under enchantment before breaking down again. At times we feel as if we have total control over the next moment; other times the chain that pulls us along tightens its grip.
He relates how "behind me, the beautiful melodious form sinks entirely into the past. It gets smaller, contracts as it declines, and now the end makes one with the beginning. Following this gold spot with my eyes I think I would accept-- even if I had to risk death, lose a fortune, a friend-- to live it all over again, in the same circumstances, from end to end. But an adventure never returns nor is prolonged." Instead, the "idea" of nothingness haunts him, "unnameable. It waits, peaceful." It asks him if that's what he wants, and then reminds him how he's only fooling himself. (38)
In the little town museum, scoffing at its gallery of great men, Roquentin blanches. On "those somber canvases" he sees the vanity of those who prospered, with confidence, coldness, and cruelty; "they had enslaved Nature: without themselves and within themselves." (90) Unlike Bouville's bovine bourgeoisie, "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 but harmless buzzing." (84) This book fills with sensations. It's far more febrile and alive than you may suppose.
Sartre conveys well the tedium not only of living, but of scholarship, the death of inspiration. Roquentin abandons his biography of one M. de Rollebon; he wanders the streets and cafes bereft; he puts up with the splendidly phrased tedium of The Self-Taught Man we all have met in a library or on the bus. Freshness vanishes. His labor appears to shrivel like dried ink: "we have so much difficulty imagining nothingness. Now I knew: things are entirely what they appear to be-- and behind them...there is nothing." (96) Seventy years later, these revelations still reverberate for those schooled, like his hapless yet idealistic, humanist and socialist counterpart, in such nostrums as contained in the autodidact's (he's making his earnest way through the library's books alphabetically by the author's surname) inspirational title by "an American author," "Is Life Worth Living?" The shelves then as now may fill with Chicken Soups for the Soul, but Sartre's bitter remedy still, on the backlist, in my copy's in its 38th printing!
Roquentin's not always cruel or patronizing. He understands the self-will of Self-Taught Man's need that crosses his own loneliness. Yet, Roquentin distrusts answers, theories, or explanations. Parts of his resistance reminded me of Buddhism or psychedelic insights: "each event, when it had played its part, put itself politely into a box and became an honorary event." (96) "Existence, liberated, detached, floods over me. I exist." (98) He wriggles his arms like crabs: "I am these two beasts struggling at the end of my hand." (99) A chestnut tree repulses him as earlier a pebble alienated him. He wanders thus through a land of people and things that he cannot enter, and he's dragged along by thought, as if endlessly. But, of course, that itself's only a prolonged illusion.
"'I am the one' who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire: the hatred, the disgust of existing, there are many ways to 'make' myself exist, to thrust myself into existence." (100) As thoughts emerge, they surround his mind "and I always yield, the thought grows and grows and there it is, immense, filling me completely and renewing my existence." But this union cannot last. He's challenged by the chestnut tree, and bristles. "Every exisiting thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance. I leaned back and closed my eyes. But the images, forewarned, immediately leaped up and filled my closed eyes with existences: existence is a fullness which man can never abandon." (133)
One is stuck existing. The naked, nude world unveils itself, and without reason. Nothingness appears to be another existence, neither before nor after creation, "this flowing larva." Maybe "the smile of the trees," or the "suspicious transparency of the glass of beer" sums up the mystery we can never solve? He invents a role with his former lover, Anny, as he views other couples trapped in their own relationships; one cannot explain the Void to another person. "This is the girl, here, this fat girl with a ruined look who touches me and whom I love." (143) Anny, too, flails within her self, struggling for meaning in "the privileged situations." Roquentin's moment of connection only reveals her own isolation: "we have lost the same illusions, we have followed the same paths." (150) She tries the imagination evoked by Loyola's "Spiritual Exercises," but even that fails to satisfy. "You haven't found me again," she assures him as she turns him away.
Restless, he wonders about his own freedom: "there is absolutely no more reason for living, all the ones I have tried have given way and I can't imagine any more of them." (156) Luckily, he's still young, if that's any hope; he's exhausted by the effort to endure. "Alone and free. But this freedom is like death." (157) Preparing to leave the provincial port, he finds no epiphany: "Existence is what I am afraid of." (160) A Corsican and the Self-Taught Man brawl; the flesh betrays his former companion, and Roquentin faces his future. "I savor this total oblivion into which I have fallen. I am between two cities, one knows nothing of me, the other knows me no longer." (169) Perhaps the tune that's kept in his head the whole narrative will be enough? "I find the same desire again: to drive existence out of me, to rid the passing moments of their fat, to twist them, purify myself, harden myself, to give back at last the sharp, precise sound of a saxophone note." (175)
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| The Stranger
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Through the story of an ordinary man unwittingly drawn into a senseless murder on an Algerian beach, Camus explored what he termed "the nakedness of man faced with the absurd." First published in 1946; now in a new translation by Matthew Ward.
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| The Fall
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