Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980)

I wish I could recall my first ten years like J-P could. All very cerebral, but a hundred years on, these recollections have little or no interest. Even J-P reveals he's a little bored with life and writing at the time he put this fragment of autobiography together. You are far better off reading his novels.

Three strangers are escorted into hell. It's a living room, in a fussy antique style, with a few couches and knick-knacks but no windows or doors. Where are their tormentors and devices of torture? Each other.

A short one-act play. Truly classic right down to its famous line - "Hell is other people". Though, despite the characters' insistence that they are torturing each other, it becomes increasingly obvious that they are each their own torturer. They see themselves reflected in each others' show more eyes - literally, in one case - and hate what they see.

Although I'm not sure how much of this play I really understood, I was especially intrigued by the gender roles involved. Garcin feels he is not masculine enough because he deserted the military, but isn't much concerned about the real reason he's in hell - abusing his wife and blatantly cheating on her. Garcin wants to sleep with Estelle despite not being terribly attracted to her, because he thinks it'll make him feel more like a man. Estelle wants to sleep with Garcin because, as Inez points out, she is constantly looking for validation from men. Estelle is afraid when Inez hits on her because she's not a man. Garcin looks for validation from Inez because she's a woman who is uninterested in him. Fascinating stuff, if the whole "cold-hearted, cruel lesbian" trope is a little tired at this point. show less

A tentativa da colonização do outro parece algo inerente nas nossas relações, seja vindo de um cônjuge, do amigo, do vizinho ou até de um psicólogo no enfrentamento dos nossos microfascismos do dia a dia, para além dos macrofascismos das nações colonizadoras, do legislativo, do judiciário e executivo... há sempre alguém clamando saber melhor dos nossos corpos, nossas psiques, nossa ética. Muitas dessas pessoas acreditam mesmo estar querendo o nosso bem, nem lhes passa pela show more cabeça a violência que estão cometendo baseada em questões absolutamente subjetivas que não necessariamente fazem bem ao outro.
Não importa Sartre dizer que estamos condenados a ser livres, ele diz isso da França numa época em que era um país colonizador territorial e intelectualmente, o acertado era dizer que estamos condenados a ser colonizados, ao se atrever ser livre fatalmente alguém apontará o dedo e dirá que não, você não pode.
É isso que nós mulheres vivemos diariamente, não podemos sentar no chão, não podemos falar alto, não podemos gargalhar, não podemos ficar alegres demais, não podemos ficar tristes demais, não podemos engordar, não podemos emagrecer, não podemos nos maquiar, não podemos deixar de usar maquiagem, não podemos virar a louca dos gatos, não podemos ter filhos demais, não podemos gostar de sexo, não podemos ser assexuais, não podemos ter qualquer autonomia inclusive o de abortar, simplesmente porque as pessoas simplesmente não conseguem deixar de colonizar o outro.

*post inspirado pelo Lira, mas também em uma vizinha que igualmente não se aguenta em praticar seus microfascismos de fofoqueira interiorana. show less

I often select books to read for absurdly capricious reasons. In the case of ‘Nausea’, I picked it up in the library because it stood out as a new acquisition, with the attendant delicious smell of freshly printed ink. I now realise that my sensual enjoyment of the book’s scent as I read was wholly inappropriate in view of its content. Never mind, I didn’t find myself achieving a meeting of minds with it anyway. Roquentin the narrator never quite articulated his sense of nausea to my show more satisfaction. Perhaps this might be a function of the translation, although I can’t summon the enthusiasm to read the original French. I felt that a fundamental human despair was being grasped at, yet never quite reached. More mundanely, I think this book demonstrates, as I have found, this it is psychologically unhealthy to spend long periods in isolation, studying a very narrow subject. (Being a PhD student can seem like a mental trial.)

Throughout ‘Nausea’, I alternated between reading quickly to get it over with and because I’d hit a section that was powerful and involving. There were a number of the latter, the most notable recounting Roquentin’s meeting with his old flame Anny. I found Anny by far the most interesting character; she appears far more self-aware and articulate than the narrator. To his credit, though, he seems to recognise this. Anny’s explanation of ‘perfect moments’ (surely the French phrase must be prettier) is a powerful one and reminded me quite strongly of a particular friend.

I note that the first paragraph of the introduction to ‘Nausea’ mentions [b:The Stranger|49552|The Stranger|Albert Camus|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349927872s/49552.jpg|3324344], which it did remind me of. I read that in French a decade ago, after a boy I liked raved about it. I enjoyed the experience of reading [b:The Stranger|49552|The Stranger|Albert Camus|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349927872s/49552.jpg|3324344], because the French language makes me happy, however the content left me cold. It’s an even more individualistically masculine book than ‘Nausea’, which likewise left me feeling distant from the narrator. Perhaps it’s harder for a woman to imagine an empty life with no obligations, no evident restrictions, and no-one caring to judge your choices. This was truer still in the 1930s, I expect. During the museum scene Roquentin contemplates privilege and entitlement, but in a narrow way. Anny’s perspective and her dialogue with Roquentin allowed me to get much closer to ‘Nausea’ than I ever managed with [b:The Stranger|49552|The Stranger|Albert Camus|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349927872s/49552.jpg|3324344], which I can’t remember having any female characters at all. Actually, my main conclusion from reading Camus was that the boy who recommended it was a wastrel.

On balance I have nothing remotely profound to say about 'Nausea', so refer you to the serviceable introduction. This book did not inspire me to deep, philosophical thoughts on the nature and meaning of life; I’d rather hoped that it would. show less