Discuss!!!!

Lets Begin!!!

Unreality:
“Nothing seemed true; I felt surrounded by cardboard scenery which could quickly be removed….”
I like Sartre’s imagery, it must have inspired that scene in the Science of Sleep, where Stéphane is building the cardboard city in his dream.


Antoine comments on life in stories, compared to real life, “Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked onto days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition…”… seemingly having little faith in the importance of time.
But then later says “Something is going to happen: something is waiting for me in the shadow of the Rue Basse-de-Vielle, it is over there, just at the corner of this calm street that my life is going to begin. . . .” It seems Antoine has some hope of something changing in his life, like the lives in stories.

I most definitely thought of Science of sleep among other films by Michel Gondry, in the idea that they address the true purity of reality, and the proper meaning of existence. I also agree with you Erin in the fact that at a certain point in his writing, he begins to have hope in some sort of a turning point (aka: meeting is ex, Anny, and finally picking up and moving on both physically and mentally) One quote that stuck out to me is when Antoine is talking to the self-taught man, “ here we sit, all of us, eating and drinking to preserve our precious existence and really there is nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.”

Reason for writing:
Sartre’s character struggles throughout the book, on whether or not there is a point to writing, in the end giving up on his 18th century writing project. Sartre most certainly challenges the standards of writing a novel with points such as “doesn’t one always write to be read?” As a whole his novel seems like a big Fuck You to other writers whom try to write for something or someone and would rather not question the overrated mundane parts of life.

Now it’s George’s turn to enlighten all of us with his big words that he learned in college...

Antoine writes, “When I was twenty I used to get drunk. After that, the next morning I felt as sick as if I had awakened in a bed full of vomit… Yesterday I didn’t even have the excuse of drunkenness. I got excited like an imbecile. I must wash myself clean with abstract thoughts, transparent as water.”

Antoine is still getting drunk, but now the alcohol is replaced by interactions with people and the fantastic stories he makes up to accompany them. The more he drinks, the more profoundly he thinks, questioning everything and self-examining. But lo! His stomach cannot handle the combination, and must throw it up. His existential crisis is like the puke all over my bathroom after J-mill happily handed the blonde freshman brigade too many vodka shots. The next morning he wakes up with a hangover of regret: “At heart, what disgusts me is having been so sublime last evening.” He immediately reverts back to the separation from all things external and internal that he so loves. He craves self-detachment: “…the nothingness to which I aspire.” And yet he cannot fully succumb to the total void, the absence of thought. His mind fills, brims, overflows and spits continuous thoughts out, much to his chagrin. It is his disturbing, haunting, meddlesome, beautiful thoughts though that set him apart from the rest of society; he is different from comfortable, tepid people that fill the streets.

Aside: By studying M. de Rollebon, Antoine took on his personality-“I no longer existed in myself, but in him.” When he got to the end, and had to chronicle Rollebon’s death, Antoine too came to an end. “I needed him so as not to feel my existence.” By living through him, he could escape his reality. When that chapter closed, Antoine was forced again to confront his true existence.

“The gramophone plays, exists, all spins, the gramophone exists, the heart beats: spin, spin, liquors of life, spin, jellies, sweet sirrups of my flesh, sweetness, the gramophone…” I who listen, I exist. And I agree with Mr. Dool: an entire kingdom is waiting to hear what His Majesty the king will say.

I can't completely delve into Nausea yet since I am not finished with it yet (though I love reading the posts above, especially from the two who were absent in the last reading!), but here are some thoughts:

1) Time, time, time. "Three o'clock. Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do. An odd moment in the afternoon." I completely agree with this, and I find it interesting what a fixation he has with this time. It is mentioned many times throughout his diary entries. "Sixty minutes, just long enough to make you feel the seconds passing one by one." Ain't that the truth.

2) I connect with Antoine very much when he's describing his innumerable observations of people. Living in a single room facing a street bustling with people throughout the day often takes me away from whatever I'm working on and I end up just watching people and making up things about them. I always try to figure out who among them are simply sleepwalking through life. "I tear myself from the window and stumble across the room; I glue myself against the looking glass. I stare at myself, I disgust myself: one more eternity. Finally I flee from my image and fall on the bed. I watch the ceiling, I'd like to sleep." I experienced this exact sequence of events last week during one of my minor existential breakdowns (but less dramatic, and excluding the part about disgusting myself), when the simple act of looking at my eyes in a mirror made me question any sort of reality we exist in, and how I became this person living in this body......

3) "If I were ever to go on a trip, I think I should make written notes of the slightest traits of my character before leaving, so that when I returned I would be able to compare what I was and what I had become." I like this concept.

4) Like Erin was saying, I also like his use of imagery. Lots of descriptions of light with shadows, gaslamps, windows, and also many oily, liquid substances. Puddles.

I realize I have just written points of the pieces of Nausea I connect with, so I'm sorry for not being more diverse, but I do enjoy reading about a character shares my obsessions with things like time and light.

*One point here to the peasants: Mr. George may be the lit major of this book club, and while I do love reading his work, his ego is in no need of a boost...we're all kings and queens here.

I found in this book enough fertile ground for thought to put a stack of "story" novels to shame. Oh how I enjoy the suspicious first person narrative, the contradictions, the reflections, the ironic inconsistencies stacked carefully upon each other like layers of a wedding cake. The scope of this text amazes me. I found it times hard to read, at other times hard not to read, but beyond that and more importantly a palpable and explicit invitation to deeper thought. There was no need for "close reading," that bastardized term used to justify personal interpretation completely limitless in its ability to limit. God the refreshment! This book I label "challenging," for the lack of a more accurately concise summation, because it forces you to deal with that aspect of literature that is usually under the surface, that aspect that is so vulnerable to disfiguring interpretations, or worst(?) of all convenient bouts of ignorant blindness.
I have not spoken specifically of the text. I fear doing so in any specific manner, but I will allow myself one guilty pleasure. I feel the distinction between thoughts and feelings are essential to beginning any sort of understanding. Many times he questions his thoughts, their origins, their meanings; he "exists because I think...and I can't stop myself from thinking." His thoughts suggest existence, he "always yields" to them, but do they really reestablish his status as an existant? He feels much differently. These feelings are feelings--do they exist in the medium of thought? They do when his thoughts descend upon them, as he has trained them to do. For him it is no revelation to experience feelings, but keeping thoughts from them is quite a sickening struggle.
So in conclusion, as the (lone?) spokesman for the humanities in this small circle I urge you: do not let your thoughts suffocate your feelings. You will find comfort and despair in both, but there WILL be perfect moments, fragile, natural; do not let them slip into the cold machine. "Existence is not something that lets itself be thought of at a distance: it must invade you suddenly, master you, weigh heavily on your heart like a great motionless beast--or else there is nothing more at all."

Oh wow, it looks like the King stole your heading Georgiana! Perhaps because he actually has a moustache! O it must be so big and royal...Oh no wait I know why maybe because YOU STOLE MY NAME YOU LITTLE TART. O yes, "If you looked in the crotch of the trousers you would surely discover a pair of little balls!"

This novel left me in a wonderfully thoughtful and confusing state. I'm still waiting for the abstract thoughts swirling in my head to sink down into me so I can decipher some sort of order to them...oh, but isn't this what we all want? We human beings must cling to this order so we may believe that the universe makes sense, that everything works at a certain degree of normalcy, that we were not born into an overwhelmingly pointless existence! Well, not quite pointless if we force ourselves to accept this freedom we have to create some sort of purpose for ourselves.

I was writing in my journal today about past experiences, thinking about Antoine's persistent acknowledgment that the past does not exist, and that people cling to the past to make them who they are. Yet I put great importance on my past memories; what good would living such a wonderful life be if I couldn't remember anything that has happened? It often takes time to fully understand the significance of certain experiences. That is, significance to my existence, and what I am making of it.

A quote from Sartre, for AGB: "On the one hand, the literary object has no substance but the reader's subjectivity . . . But, on the other hand, the words are there like traps to arouse our feelings and to reflect them towards us . . . Thus, the writer appeals to the reader's freedom to collaborate in the production of the work."

Also in response to Aaron's description of the relationship between thoughts and feelings, I like the metaphor of the "cold machine," it reminded me of your poem about the machine, which relates well to this topic. We are too often trained in the direction of living only with our thoughts...what about our hearts? I often experience feelings inside me that I cannot interpret thoroughly enough to put into accurate words; the way "human nature" works is to "naturally" try to comprehend these feelings so we may think logically about them, but 1) what does this really do for a person? and 2) what is logic anyway? (Right now, logic defines the math problems awaiting me at my midterm tomorrow, supposedly making sense of everything in the world, and so I may have a biased position towards the illogical at the moment.) And so, these thoughts stay within me, without interference from my brain, and they somehow guide me in the direction of certain desires...

I concede, I concede! My futile attempt to steal Luke's identity has been unearthed. No more can I pretend. My title shall be changed for the next round of discussions.

--"Adeline N.", the artist formerly known as GeorgianaSays