How comical it would be if the world truly ended tomorrow.
I finished reading Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre last night. I’m certainly glad I didn’t try tackling his work Being and Nothingness, because this novel was certainly heavy enough for a dreary December such as the one we’re having. Despite the overwhelming ruminations on existence and the narrator’s lonely demeanor, the book was interesting and unexpected. Sartre closed the novel with a very poignant ending, and ultimately it was a good read.
I didn’t think that the introduction of the narrator’s former love interest Anny as a character would be nearly affective as it was, but there was something about her dialogue and her mantra, “I outlive myself,” that shook me. Below is one of my favorite excerpts from her.
I hope you’re not expecting recognition for your delayed regrets. Besides, I hold nothing against you; I never explained anything to you clearly , I was all in knots, I couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even you - especially not you. There was always something that rang false at those moments. Then I was lost. But I still had the feeling I was doing everything I could.
She was a touch of tragic and more resigned than I would like, but still beautiful.
As the year comes to a close, I’m really beginning to feel the unraveling. Lots of big steps, a few more mistakes, a few moments of peace, and more uncertainty than I’ll ever be alright with. Though there are still days I would rather get lost and listen to songs of other singers, still days with heavy boots and silly distractions, I’m slowly going the direction I’ve been shooting for. A little anxious for December to be over with. Things are always a little harder to let go this time of year.
Next I’m reading Katherine Monk’s biography of Joni Mitchell. Super stoked.
"One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness; mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle, and dance in a glorious jubilee.
“I said his heaven would be only half alive, and he said mine would be drunk; I said I should fall asleep in his, and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to grow very snappish.”
Sometimes I look back with fondness, but rarely do I ever wonder “if only.”
You couldn’t expect me to be any good at walking on eggshells,
because if anything it is evident that
I am more clumsy than most;
and maybe too abstract,
I don’t know.