It took me years to read my first novel by
Sartre. I blame it on the (mutual) dislike for my high-school philosophy teacher
and his classes on existentialism (disclaimer: he was a great teacher, but wasn’t
particularly nice to me and my then girlfriend – the same girl I ended up
marrying).
Despite its title, Nausea is a really enjoyable book. Much to my surprise, its apathy
doesn’t rub onto the reader, and I actually managed to appreciate its deep and
reflective passages a lot more than I would have expected.
And I was a big fan of the Autodidact (probably
because I like to think of myself as having a similar approach to my cultural
growth), but I really wish he would keep his hands in their place...
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