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Poezii Românesti - Romanian Poetry


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prose [ ]
selection from the novel

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by [Jean_Paul_Sartre ]

2005-11-17  |     |  Submited by andreea l.

6.00 p.m.

I can't say I feel relieved or satisfied; just the opposite, I am crushed. Only my goal is reached: I
know what I wanted to know; I have understood all that has happened to me since January. The
Nausea has not left me and I don't believe it will leave me so soon; but I no longer have to bear it, it is
no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I.
So I was in the park just now. The roots of the chestnut tree were sunk in the ground just under
my bench. I couldn't
remember it was a root any more. The words had vanished and with them the significance of things,
their methods of use, and the feeble points of reference which men have traced on their surface. I was
sitting, stooping forward, head bowed, alone in front of this black, knotty mass, entirely beastly,
which frightened me. Then I had this vision.
It left me breathless. Never, until these last few days, had I understood the meaning of
I was like the others, like the ones walking along the seashore, all dressed in their spring
finery. I said, like them, "The ocean is green; that white speck up there is a seagull," but I didn't feel
that it existed or that the seagull was an "existing seagull"; usually existence hides itself. It is there,
around us, in us, it is us, you can't say two words without mentioning it, but you can never touch it.
When I believed I was thinking about it, I must believe that I was thinking nothing, my head was
empty, or there was just one word in my head, the word "to be." Or else I was thinking . . . how can I
explain it? I was thinking of belonging, I was telling myself that the sea belonged to the class of green
objects, or that the green was a part of the quality of the sea. Even when I looked at things, I was miles
from dreaming that they existed: they looked like scenery to me. I picked them up in my hands, they
served me as tools, 1 foresaw their resistance. But that all happened on the surface. If anyone had
asked me what existence was, I would have answered, in good faith, that it was nothing, simply an
empty form which was added to external things without changing anything in their nature. And then
all of a sudden, there it was, clear as day: existence had suddenly unveiled itself. It had lost the
harmless look of an abstract category: it was the very paste of things, this root was kneaded into
existence. Or rather the root, the park gates, the bench, the sparse grass, all that had vanished: the
diversity of things, their individuality, were only an appearance, a veneer. This veneer had melted,
leaving soft, monstrous masses, all in disorder—naked, in a frightful, obscene nakedness.
I kept myself from making the slightest movement, but I didn't need to move in order to see,
behind the trees, the blue columns and the lamp posts of the bandstand and the Velleda, in the midst
of a mountain of laurel. All these objects . . . how can I explain? They inconvenienced me; I would
have liked them to exist less strongly, more dryly, in a more abstract way, with more reserve. The
chestnut tree pressed itself against my eyes. Green rust covered it half-way up; the bark, black and
looked like boiled leather. The sound of the water in the Mas-queret Fountain sounded in my ears,
made a nest there, filled them with signs; my nostrils overflowed with a green, putrid odour. All
things, gently, tenderly, were letting themselves drift into existence like those relaxed women who
burst out laughing and say: "It's good to laugh," in a wet voice; they were parading, one in front of the
other, exchanging abject secrets about their existence. I realized that there was no half-way house
between non-existence and this flaunting abundance. If you existed, you had to exist all the way, as far
as mouldiness, bloatedness, obscenity were concerned. In another world, circles, bars of music keep
their pure and rigid lines. But existence is a deflection. Trees, night-blue pillars, the happy bubbling of
a fountain, vital smells, little heat-mists floating in the cold air, a red-haired man digesting on a bench:
all this somnolence, all these meals digested together, had its comic side. . . . Comic ... no: it didn't go
as far as that, nothing that exists can be comic; it was like a floating analogy, almost entirely elusive,
with certain aspects of vaudeville. We were a heap of living creatures, irritated, embarrassed at ourselves,
we hadn't the slightest reason to be there, none of us, each one, confused, vaguely alarmed, felt
in the way in relation to the others. In the way: it was the only relationship I could establish between
these trees, these gates, these stones. In vain I tried to count the chestnut trees, to locate them by their
relationship to the Velleda, to compare their height with the height of the plane trees: each of them
escaped the relationship in which I tried to enclose it, isolated itself, and overflowed. Of these relations
(which I insisted on maintaining in order to delay the crumbling of the human world, measures,
quantities, and directions)—I felt myself to be the arbitrator; they no longer had their teeth into things.
In the way, the chestnut tree there, opposite me, a little to the left. In the way, the Velleda. . . .
And I—soft, weak, obscene, digesting, juggling with dismal thoughts—I, too, was In the way.
Fortunately, I didn't feel it, although I realized it, but I was uncomfortable because I was afraid of
feeling it (even now I am afraid—afraid that it might catch me behind my head and lift me up like a
wave). I dreamed vaguely of killing myself to wipe out at least one of these superfluous lives. But
even my death would have been In the way. In the way, my corpse, my blood on these stones, between
these plants, at the back of this smiling garden. And the decomposed flesh would have been In the way
in the earth which would receive
my bones, at last, cleaned, stripped, peeled, proper and clean as teeth, it would have been In the
way: I was In the way for eternity.
The word absurdity is coming to life under my pen; a little while ago, in the garden, I couldn't find it,
but neither was I looking for it, I didn't need it: I thought without words, on things, with things.
Absurdity was not an idea in my head, or the sound of a voice, only this long serpent dead at my feet,
this wooden serpent. Serpent or claw or root or vulture's talon, what difference does it make. And
without formulating anything clearly, I understood that I had found the key to Existence, the key to my
Nauseas, to my own life. In fact, all that I could grasp beyond that returns to this fundamental
absurdity. Absurdity: another word; I struggle against words; down there I touched the thing. But I
wanted to fix the absolute character of this absurdity here. A movement, an event in the tiny coloured
world of men is only relatively absurd: by relation to the accompanying circumstances. A madman's
ravings, for example, are absurd in relation to the situation in which he finds himself, but not in
relation to his delirium. But a little while ago I made an experiment with the absolute or the absurd.
This root—there was nothing in relation to which it was absurd. Oh, how can I put it in words?
Absurd: in relation to the stones, the tufts of yellow grass, the dry mud, the tree, the sky, the green
benches. Absurd, irreducible; nothing—not even a profound, secret upheaval of nature—could
explain it. Evidently I did not know everything, I had not seen the seeds sprout, or the tree grow. But
faced with this great wrinkled paw, neither ignorance nor knowledge was important: the world of
explanations and reasons is not the world of existence. A circle is not absurd, it is clearly explained by
the rotation of a straight segment around one of its extremities. But neither does a circle exist. This
root, on the other hand, existed in such a way that I could not explain it. Knotty, inert, nameless, it
fascinated me, filled my eyes, brought me back unceasingly to its own existence. In vain to repeat:
"This is a root"—it didn't work any more. I saw clearly that you could not pass from its function as a
root, as a breathing pump, to that, to this hard and compact skin of a sea lion, to this oily, callous,
headstrong look. The function explained nothing: it allowed you to understand generally that it was a
root, but not that one at all. This root, with its colour, shape, its congealed movement, was . . . below
all explanation. Each of its qualities escaped it a little, flowed out
of it, half solidified, almost became a thing; each one was In the way in the root and the whole stump
now gave me the impression of unwinding itself a little, denying its existence to lose itself in a
frenzied excess. I scraped my heel against this black claw: I wanted to peel off some of the bark. For
no reason at all, out of defiance, to make the bare pink appear absurd on the tanned leather: to play
with the absurdity of the world. But, when I drew my heel back, I saw that the bark was still black.
Black? I felt the word deflating, emptied of meaning with extraordinary rapidity. Black? The root
was not black, there was no black on this piece of wood—there was . . . something else: black, like the
circle, did not exist. I looked at the root: was it more than black or almost black? But I soon stopped
questioning myself because I had the feeling of knowing where I was. Yes, I had already scrutinized
innumerable objects, with deep uneasiness. I had already tried—vainly—to think something about
them: and I had already felt their cold, inert qualities elude me, slip through my fingers. Adolphe's
suspenders, the other evening in the "Railwaymen's Rendezvous." They were not purple. I saw the two
inexplicable stains on the shirt. And the stone—the well-known stone, the origin of this whole
business: it was not . . . I can't remember exactly just what it was that the stone refused to be. But I had
not forgotten its passive resistance. And the hand of the Self-Taught Man; I held it and shook it one
day in the library and then I had the feeling that it wasn't quite a hand. I had thought of a great white
worm, but that wasn't it either. And the suspicious transparency of the glass of beer in the Cafe Mably.
Suspicious: that's what they were, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. When they ran quickly under your
nose like startled hares and you didn't pay too much attention, you might believe them to be simple and
reassuring, you might believe that there was real blue in the world, real red, a real perfume of almonds
or violets. But as soon as you held on to them for an instant, this feeling of comfort and security gave
way to a deep uneasiness: colours, tastes, and smells were never real, never themselves and nothing but
themselves. The simplest, most indefinable quality had too much content, in relation to itself, in its
heart. That black against my foot, it didn't look like black, but rather the confused effort to imagine
black by someone who had never seen black and who wouldn't know how to stop, who would have
imagined an ambiguous being beyond colours. It looked like a colour, but also . . . like a bruise or a
secretion, like an oozing—and something
else, an odour, for example, it melted into the odour of wet earth, warm, moist wood, into a black
odour that spread like varnish over this sensitive wood, in a flavour of chewed, sweet fibre. I did not
simply see this black: sight is an abstract invention, a simplified idea, one of man's ideas. That black,
amorphous, weakly presence, far surpassed sight, smell and taste. But this richness was lost in
confusion and finally was no more because it was too much.
This moment was extraordinary. I was there, motionless and icy, plunged in a horrible ecstasy.
But something fresh had just appeared in the very heart of this ecstasy; I understood the Nausea, I
possessed it. To tell the truth, I did not formulate my discoveries to myself. But I think it would be
easy for me to put them in words now. The essential thing is contingency. I mean that one cannot
define existence as necessity. To exist is simply to be there; those who exist let themselves be
encountered, but you can never deduce anything from them. I believe there are people who have
understood this. Only they tried to overcome this contingency by inventing a necessary, causal being.
But no necessary being can explain existence: contingency is not a delusion, a probability which can
be dissipated; it is the absolute, consequently, the perfect free gift. All is free, this park, this city and
myself. When you realize that, it turns your heart upside down and everything begins to float, as the
other evening at the "Railwaymen's Rendezvous": here is Nausea; here there is what those bastards—
the ones on the Coteau Vert and others—try to hide from themselves with their idea of their rights. But
what a poor lie: no one has any rights; they are entirely free, like other men, they cannot succeed in not
feeling superfluous. And in themselves, secretly, they are superfluous, that is to say, amorphous,
vague, and sad.
How long will this fascination last? I was the root of the chestnut tree. Or rather I was entirely
conscious of its existence. Still detached from it—since I was conscious of it—yet lost in it, nothing
but it. An uneasy conscience which, notwithstanding, let itself fall with all its weight on this piece of
dead wood. Time had stopped: a small black pool at my feet; it was impossible for something to come
after that moment. I would have liked to tear myself from that atrocious joy, but I did not even
imagine it would be possible; I was inside; the black stump did not move, it stayed there, in my eyes,
as a lump of food sticks in the windpipe. I could neither accept nor refuse it. At what a cost did I
raise my eyes? Did I raise them? Rather did I not obliterate myself for an instant in order to be reborn
in the following instant with my head thrown back and my eyes raised upward? In fact, I was not even
conscious of the transformation. But suddenly it became impossible for me to think of the existence of
the root. It was wiped out, I could repeat in vain: it exists, it is still there, under the bench, against my
right foot, it no longer meant anything. Existence is not something which lets itself be thought of from
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.
There was nothing more, my eyes were empty and I was spellbound by my deliverance. Then
suddenly it began to move before my eyes in light, uncertain motions: the wind was shaking the top of
the tree.
It did not displease me to see a movement, it was a change from these motionless beings who
watched me like staring eyes. I told myself, as I followed the swinging of the branches: movements
never quite exist, they are passages, intermediaries between two existences, moments of weakness, I
expected to see them come out of nothingness, progressively ripen, blossom: I was finally going to
surprise beings in the process of being born.
No more than three seconds, and all my hopes were swept away. I could not attribute the passage
of time to these branches groping around like blind men. This idea of passage was still an invention of
man. The idea was too transparent. All these paltry agitations, drew in on themselves, isolated. They
overflowed the leaves and branches everywhere. They whirled about these empty hands, enveloped
them with tiny whirlwinds. Of course a movement was something different from a tree. But it was still
an absolute. A thing. My eyes only encountered completion. The tips of the branches rustled with
existence which unceasingly renewed itself and which was never born. The existing wind rested on the
tree like a great bluebottle, and the tree shuddered. But the shudder was not a nascent quality, a
passing from power to action; it was a thing; a shudder-thing flowed into the tree, took possession of
it, shook it and suddenly abandoned it, going further on to spin about itself. All was fullness and all
was active, there was no weakness in time, all, even the least perceptible stirring, was made of
existence. And all these existents which bustled about this tree came from nowhere and were going
nowhere. Suddenly they existed, then suddenly they existed no longer: existence is without memory; of the vanished it retains nothing—not even a memory.
Existence everywhere, infinitely, in excess, for ever and everywhere; existence—which is limited only by existence. I sank down on the bench, stupefied, stunned by this profusion of beings without origin:
everywhere blossomings, hatchings out, my ears buzzed with existence, my very flesh throbbed and
opened, abandoned itself to the universal burgeoning. It was repugnant. But why, I thought, why so
many existences, since they all look alike? What good are so many duplicates of trees? So many
existences missed, obstinately begun again and again missed—like the awkward efforts of an insect
fallen on its back? (I was one of those efforts.) That abundance did not give the effect of generosity,
just the opposite. It was dismal, ailing, embarrassed at itself. Those trees, those great clumsy bodies. . .
. I began to laugh because I suddenly thought of the formidable springs described in books, full of
crackings, burstings, gigantic explosions. There were those idiots who came to tell you about willpower
and struggle for life. Hadn't they ever seen a beast or a tree? This plane-tree with its scaling
bark, this half-rotten oak, they wanted me to take them for rugged youthful endeavour surging
towards the sky. And that root? I would have undoubtedly had to represent it as a voracious claw
tearing at the earth, devouring its food?
Impossible to see things that way. Weaknesses, frailties, yes. The trees floated. Gushing towards
the sky? Or rather a collapse; at any instant I expected to see the tree-trunks shrivel like weary wands,
crumple up, fall on the ground in a soft, folded, black heap. They did not want to exist, only they
could not help themselves. So they quietly minded their own business; the sap rose up slowly through
the structure, half reluctant, and the roots sank slowly into the earth. But at each instant they seemed
on the verge of leaving everything there and obliterating themselves. Tired and old, they kept on
existing, against the grain, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could only come
to them from the outside: strains of music alone can proudly carry their own death within themselves
like an internal necessity: only they don't exist. Every existing 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.
Strange images. They represented a multitude of things. Not
real things, other things which looked like them. Wooden objects which looked like chairs, shoes,
other objects which looked like plants. And then two faces: the couple who were eating opposite to me
last Sunday in the Brasserie Vezelise. Fat, hot, sensual, absurd, with red ears. I could see the woman's
neck and shoulders. Nude existence. Those two—it suddenly gave rne a turn—those two were still
existing somewhere in Bouville; somewhere—in the midst of smells?—this soft throat rubbing up
luxuriously against smooth stuffs, nestling in lace; and the woman picturing her bosom under her
blouse, thinking: "My titties, my lovely fruits," smiling mysteriously, attentive to the swelling of her
breasts which tickled . . . then I shouted and found myself with my eyes wide open.
Had I dreamed of this enormous presence? It was there, in the garden, toppled down into the
trees, all soft, sticky, soiling everything, all thick, a jelly. And I was inside, I with the garden. I was
frightened, furious, I thought it was so stupid, so out of place, I hated this ignoble mess. Mounting up,
mounting up as high as the sky, spilling over, filling everything with its gelatinous slither, and I could
see depths upon depths of it reaching far beyond the limits of the garden, the houses, and Bouville, as
far as the eye could reach. I was no longer in Bouville, I was nowhere, I was floating. I was not
surprised, I knew it was the World, the naked World suddenly revealing itself, and I choked with rage
at this gross, absurd being. You couldn't even wonder where all that sprang from, or how it was that a
world came into existence, rather than nothingness. It didn't make sense, the World was everywhere, in
front, behind. There had been nothing before it. Nothing. There had never been a moment in which it
could not have existed. That was what worried me: of course there was no reason for this flowing
larva to exist. But it was impossible for it is not to exist. It was unthinkable: to imagine nothingness
you had to be there already, in the midst of the World, eyes wide open and alive; nothingness was only
an idea in my head, an existing idea floating in this immensity: this nothingness had not come before
existence, it was an existence like any other and appeared after many others. I shouted "filth! what
rotten filth!" and shook myself to get rid of this sticky filth, but it held fast and there was so much, tons
and tons of existence, endless: I stifled at the depths of this immense weariness. And then suddenly the
park emptied as through a great hole, the World disappeared as it had come, or else I woke up—in any
case, I saw no more of it; nothing was left but the yellow earth around me, out of which dead
branches rose upward.
I got up and went out. Once at the gate, I turned back. Then the garden smiled at me. I leaned
against the gate and watched for a long time. The smile of the trees, of the laurel, meant something;
that was the real secret of existence. I remembered one Sunday, not more than three weeks ago, I had
already detected everywhere a sort of conspiratorial air. Was it in my intention? I felt with boredom
that I had no way of understanding. No way. Yet it was there, waiting, looking at one. It was there on
the trunk of the chestnut tree ... it was the chestnut tree. Things—you might have called them
thoughts—which stopped halfway, which were forgotten, which forgot what they wanted to think and
which stayed like that, hanging about with an odd little sense which was beyond them. That little
sense annoyed me: I could not understand it, even if I could have stayed leaning against the gate for a
century; I had learned all I could know about existence. I left, I went back to the hotel and I wrote.

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