Nausea, Sartre
Something is beginning in order to end: adventure does not let itself be drawn out; it only makes sense when dead. I am drawn, irrevocably, towards this death which is perhaps mine as well. Each instant appears only as a part of a sequence. I cling to each instant with all my heart: I know that it is unique, irreplaceable - and yet I woudl not raise a finger to stop it from being annihilated. This last moment I am spending - in Berlin, in London - in the arms of a woman casually met two days ago - monent I love passionately, woman I may adore - all is going to end, I know it. Soon I shall leave for another country. I shall never rediscover either this woman or this night. I grasp at each second, trying to suck it dry: nothing happens which I do not seize, which I do not fix forever in myself, nothing, neither the fugitive tenderness of those lovely eyes, nor the noises of the street, nor the false dawn of early morning: and even so the minute passes and I do not hold back, I like to see it pass. p55
I wanted the moments of my life to follow and order themselves like those of a life remembered. You might as well try and catch time by the tail. p58
Perhaps there is nothing in the world I cling to as much as this feeling of adventure; but it comes when it pleases; it is gone so quickly and how empty I am once it has left. Does it, ironically, pay me these short visits in order to show me that I have wasted my life? p78
Nausea, Sartre
I wanted the moments of my life to follow and order themselves like those of a life remembered. You might as well try and catch time by the tail. p58
Perhaps there is nothing in the world I cling to as much as this feeling of adventure; but it comes when it pleases; it is gone so quickly and how empty I am once it has left. Does it, ironically, pay me these short visits in order to show me that I have wasted my life? p78
Nausea, Sartre