Jean-Paul Sartre. Next to the greats of Roman glory this Frenchman was among the few who captured my early admiration. Perhaps it was what felt like his raw nudity. And I don't know why exactly.
With Antoine and his solitude there is a warming sensation as I follow him through his wasted days and lonely encounters. To walk with him in his meager, humble, self-absorbed existence and to feel the arbitrary nature of his seemingly simplistic thought patterns as they stretch and swell into what seems no one else but everyone else ponders.
Is it impossible to not feel the inevitable solitude of humanity? To make the obscure void completely abstract, to loose the deepest emotion and understand madness at its core of sane men and its creep upon thinking men.
My thoughts are jumbled and often lost. I am trying much like Antoine to capture something arbitrary or concrete in all of these spiralling conceptual ideas. I feel as though Sartre has captured some part of me... two parts of me... maybe three, in this seemingly over-looked book.
The first is obvious. Antoine. he is consumed by meaninglessness and existence and he can get as lost in the past as he can in the present with a looming uncertainty about the future. His nausea. The way he is fascinated by things and equally and simultaneously disgusted by them. he studies people and is attached to both routine AND adventure.
Second, the self-taught man and his gentle soul and love for humanity. I neither agree nor disagree with either Antoine or the self-taught man but I certainly identify with both.
Then of course, dear Anny. Gypsy spirits and perfect moments. Hardened by life and always outliving herself.