Malvika’s Ramblings

 I swam through parts of Nausea. I carefully read others. I agreed, disagreed and was indifferent. Instances made sense, or even if they didn’t, could be well imagined and felt, such as the beer mug at the bar. Then, the author’s acute awareness of objects around him such as the black root seemed to be the condition of a man who thinks too much out of lack of work. He feels the root’s damp black texture, smells its rotten smell, identifies its hooked nature, finds it like a claw, and ponders over its blackness. He doesn’t simply acknowledge the root but feels it mentally so that it acquires immense importance, which seems unnecessary and inconsequential. The author is ‘aware’ of things such as the park, someone’s purple braces, someone else’s hands, and the stool he is sitting on just because they exist. He also thinks that there is no other way to exist than to exist strongly. He finds it a waste to exist. He finds it superficial. What I gather is that to exist merely because something ‘is’ seems meaningless and petty to the author. Yet, he does not think that loving those around (humanism) or being ambitious, achieving worldly success justifies existence. This is seen by the author’s apathy to act, or his lack of drive. The author does not seem to be wallowing in martyrdom either as his gloomy views towards the world appear very genuine. The aim of his thoughts and views seems to be to see everything as it is, stripped of all veneers. In doing so he strips objects of all things like functional value, aesthetic charm and looks at them as things that just exist. He finds himself a part of the uselessness. Suicide is not a way to step out of the scene as he realizes he would be useless for all time, a useless living man or a useless decomposing corpse.

The man is lonely and speaks less. His thoughts are not the usual thoughts of men. However, in a few places in the novel he is charged like usual men and grabs an offensive man by his collar or desires to hold Anny (ex gf) in his arms. The passion is dilute though. He lets the man go and does not try to hard with Anny either. Instances with actions of reality, such as when he returns the library books keep the link between him and the world around him intact and keep the readers as well as the author on some sort of firm ground.

Objects, as they appear useless to the author, make him sick in their existence. This leads to bouts of nausea. The author gradually realizes that everything around him makes him a bit sick and the nausea is him. At times his thoughts stretch, elongate sickeningly and he imagines situations such as a blood stream with cream creating separate bloody rivulets, he thinks of a man in his room as dead with a purple tongue lolling out and the most grotesque, he thinks of a man waking up naked on a blue surface with large testicles which bleed as birds peck at them. Some of the writing does make one gag and feel nauseous. In that, I must appreciate the power of the author.

The author finds some meaning only in a jazz tune he listens to at a café. He likes the notes as they build up and die. He finds meaning in the existence and death of the music. He thinks that the negress who sings to the music on the record is called by the music. The music builds up and invites her voice, which enters at the correct time, and since it is wanted, has meaning. The author considers the music to be outside the useless world that exists since it is physically intangible. It has meaning and not just a petty form. It is above the rest of physical gadgets and materials. He says that he might grab the record and break it but he would not get to the music, which is sublime. Then the author thinks that the composer of the song has also risen above his existence by creating the music out of himself. The negress has also justified her existence by being part of the music. At this, the author thinks that he could also free himself of the heaviness of his existence by writing a book that would be to someone what the jazz piece was to him. The author is a historian but decides to drop history as he thinks that existence could not be given a meaning by thinking over existents of the past. At this conclusion of the novel I could comprehend the scene well and that happened completely only at a few places in the book. One could see that a man had found a strong reason to do something and was ready and inspired to do something as specific as writing a book. This action is a definite thing in contrast to the thoughts that went through the author’s head, evolved and were explained at length by the author for the reader to grasp. And well, at this conclusion one also thought here we are at a simple solution that we did not need a philosopher for, any man with ordinary intelligence would realize that he had to work to give meaning to his life and existence, work that he believed in. It was like experiments which scientists conduct in their laboratories with much money and effort to come to the conclusion that laughter is a sign of happiness. The question is, does the book show us how the author looked for meaning and usefulness in his existence? I do not know as it did not seem as simple but then, many high flown things are simply argued, discussed, thought-over lines of morality from children’s fables.

There is an interesting instance when the author examines his face in a mirror and finds himself sleeping with his eyes open. He leans closer and closer into the mirror and observes objectively as he has been lonely and has not had comments or compliments to help him form an opinion of his appearance. At another time he is sitting in a restaurant and notices how the mood of the place changes with the entry of different customers and how despite all the disconnection, the people present are connected to each other. His thoughts on the happy young couple in the restaurant are cynical. At the restaurant he listens to his friend and his views on humanism with half interest. So, in places one empathises with the author and is quite relieved to have him describe all that and, in a way, legalise lonely thoughts and experiences. But then, when I go out into my garden and look at the rusty iron ladder just as a rusty iron ladder, find the grass dewy and green and no more, objects seem justified in their existence. There seems to be no problem, one realizes one is looking harder at things just because one read the book. No chronic nausea.

This entry was posted on Sunday, February 25th, 2007 at 4:43 am and is filed under Reviews. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.