If we do something, it is because we choose to do so, not because of predetermination or god. We are, by chance, and everything else exists because we make it so.
For existentialists, there is no higher being or higher order. Other philosophies postulate a higher being. The theory behind existentialism is clear. He is at a loss to explain these feelings but gradually he (and we) realise that he is feeling existential angst. Real things – a stone, a glass of beer – make him feel uneasy. He is writing his diary because he feels a change coming over him, a sort of nausea. Roquentin is a solitary person and has recently returned to France after a long period abroad. It purports to be the diary of Antoine Roquentin, a historian who is writing about the Marquis de Rollebon, and the manuscript of his notes has been found, an old cliché. However, this book had an immediate success on publication and has remained in print and a key work of the twentieth century. He may be right about the Dostoevsky influence but then lots of writers have been influenced by Dostoevsky. Fortunately, his views have not prevailed. Nabokov clearly did not think much of this book. if I yield, they're going to come round in front of me, between my eyes, and I always yield, the thought grows and grows and there it is, immense, filling me completely and renewing my existence.Home » France » Jean-Paul Sartre » La Nausée (US: Nausea UK: The Diary of Antoine Roquentin) Jean-Paul Sartre: La Nausée (US: Nausea UK: The Diary of Antoine Roquentin) Thoughts are born at the back of me, like sudden giddiness, I feel them being born behind my head. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire: the hatred, the disgust of existing, there are as many ways to make myself exist, to thrust myself into existence. At this very moment, it's frightful, if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. Because that's still a thought." Will there never be an end to it? I mustn't think that I don't want to think.
If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke. How serpentine is this feeling of existing, I unwind it, slowly. But though I am the one who continues it, unrolls it. The body lives by itself once it has begun. For example, this sort of painful rumination: I exist, I am the one who keeps it up. It's worse than the rest because I feel responsible and have complicity in it. Then there are words, inside the thoughts, unfinished words, a sketchy sentence which constantly returns: "I have to fi. They stretch out and there's no end to them and they leave a funny taste in the mouth. “I jump up: it would be much better if I could only stop thinking.
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