This is the basis for the joy of love when there is joy; we feel that our existence is justified.

I discovered suddenly that alienation, exploitation of man by man, under-nourishment, relegated to the background metaphysical evil which is a luxury.

Everything is gratuitous, this garden, this city and myself. When you suddenly realize it, it makes you feel sick and everything begins to drift . . . that's nausea.

What I regretted in La Nausee was not to have put myself completely into the thing. I remained outside my hero's disease, protected by my neurosis which, through writing, gave me happiness.

One could only damage oneself through the harm one did to others. One could never get directly at oneself.

I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity.

When I can't see myself in the mirror, I can't even feel myself, and I begin to wonder if I exist at all.