Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre

It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. The Self-Taught Man doesn't count. Smiles. My neighbour is speaking, the old man burns. The great red-faced man leaps up:

The young man turns and turns the nine of hearts between his fingers. The man has disappeared. The Self-Taught Man's choice of reading always disconcerts me.

It's the Self-Taught Man: I had forgotten him. Stopping

The old men are there as usual. "That little woman there . . ."

From time to time the wind cast shadows against

Anny." man.

Anny." A man comes in, shivering. The little man stirs and sighs. "Jeanne, my little Jeanne."

The little man raises his head with a smile of relief. The doctor turns his head a little. The man called the waiter. "Ready?" the man asked.

"Well! "Well I never!"

"It's about time!"

I shall never forget his eyes.

What time is it?" Work? The Self-Taught Man came close enough to breathe in my face.

"If you would, Monsieur . .

."

"I'm so glad," the Self-Taught Man said. It was time. There was the little old man, the blond young man, a girl working for her degree- and I. The old man had finished his book. The old man shook his head undecidedly. The old man appeared at the door. This man was one-ideaed. A woman and a man came in. "Oh, poor little Pipo!"

I exist.

I exist. I exist. existing. Little Lucienne was raped. To expand; my cut hand hurts, exist, exist, exist. Existed.

"Don't kill it, Monsieur!" the Self-Taught Man shouted. The two men have lighted cigarettes. Man throws his chest

The young man closes the door. The Self-Taught Man turns round with a pleasant: "Messieurs, dames."

The waitress, a little disappointed, turns to the young woman. An admirable man. The Self-Taught Man suddenly grows sad:

The Self-Taught Man dreams for a moment:

The young man laughs ironically. The Self-Taught Man smiles with a little malice and much solemnity.

All men are my friends. "Well?"

"Black!" "Well? face? Who can empty a man! Empty a man! The Self-Taught Man laughs candidly, but his eyes stay wicked:

The Self-Taught Man grows softer. The Self-Taught Man's face is close to mine. People. Men are admirable. The Self-Taught Man is babbling and his

My hand. Well? For example, stab this cheese knife into the Self-Taught Man's eye. "I'm a little tired. Black? Black? "A hundred times."

This man who's keeping me ..."

I raise my eyes. "A little, sometimes: never very strongly. An old man was sleeping opposite me. It was the Self-Taught Man. The Self-Taught Man did not look surprised. The Corsican went up to the Self-Taught Man:

The Self- Taught Man turned around, frightened. The Self-Taught Man sank back in his chair

room.

People

Women? For the last time.

Just a little?

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