If you question why we do the things we do, marching forward in the same rhythm despite the fact that we all know it won’t work, or that we’ll make things worse,  

If you question why things are the way they are, why we’ve been unable to incite any real change despite numerous speeches, screams, and sobs, 

If you don’t know of your place in this world, questioning what the point of any of this really is, 
or, really… 
If you exist, 
then you should read Nausea, a novel by Jean-Paul Sartre. 

Nausea is an intimate novel, translated by Lloyd Alexander, that follows the exploits of Antoine Roquentin, a disillusioned French historian who goes about life in the dreary town of Bouville. The novel assumes the form of Roquentin’s diary, wherein he records various details of his life, ranging from dull recountings of his daily trips to the library, to pained reflections on his time with a bygone lover, Anny. The nuance, and, I would argue, the brilliance of the novel, lies in what Roquentin coins the ‘nausea.’ Nausea is the word used to describe Roquentin’s curious affliction, wherein he struggles to find meaning in anything he does, and in turn, anything anyone ever does. Nausea is a visceral, existential anxiety, a relentless questioning of why our lives proceed in the ways that they do. Everything exists, violently, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Take, for example, an unassuming glass of beer: 

Everywhere, now, there are objects like this glass of beer on the table there. When I see it, I feel like saying: “Enough.” I realize quite well that I have gone too far … I have been avoiding looking at this glass of beer for half an hour. I look above, below, right and left; but I don’t want to see it.  

Nausea manifests as an inability to reconcile with the intense arbitrariness of everyday life. Roquentin knows this glass of beer exists; he knows he exists in relation to it, staring at it without reproach. Something is there and he cannot truly control it. He can exert himself, moving the glass or drinking from it, but there’s nothing he can do to erase it from existence. Even shattering the glass, spilling the liquid forth, doesn’t mean that the glass was never there. His life has forever been touched by something he did not will into being. Why must it exist? Why must he? This eternal onslaught of questioning is a constant theme of Sartre’s oeuvre, as the manifestation of his existential frameworks.   

I know nausea, and I believe that all of us do. It’s that panic that rises within you when you stare at your body, naked and stark, in the mirror after a shower; I stare, with violent intensity, at the curvatures of my flesh. I question why the construction of my ribcage is beyond the scope of my control, existing in opposition to every desire I have for a phantasmal form. Nausea is the knowledge that you can change some things, but it’s also the knowledge that you can’t change everything. I dream of what I could change; severance and sawblade, hacking away at everything undesirable that constellates my frame. How simple it would be to take up the scalpel, wield the blade, and ponder a newfound absence betwixt my legs. There’s certainty and uncertainty in every pound of flesh and every muscle fiber, and it is hell to reconcile the difference; admitting that you can’t change something is a means of accepting your insignificance. I don’t know how to stop entreating the mirror in which nausea is my spine’s contortion. Standing there, I search for a new angle to see something that I know exists, that I know always will exist, and that I know I’m not brave enough to change. Nausea is the sigh you release as you consider coming to terms with your own powerlessness before letting that worry float down, sink into your chest, and wait for tomorrow. It is existence, made bare, in all its terror-inducing neutrality.  

As the novel unfolds, Roquentin must face his nausea as it floods forth, tarnishing his every perception. Nothing is by his design; the world itself may very well be meaningless, since “every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself by weakness and dies by chance.”  Roquentin gives up on the history book he’d been writing and begins to disparage his one and only friend, succumbing to how woefully pointless his life is. It’s an artful showcase of a descent into nihilism, to which I’m sympathetic. I find it easier to walk away from the mirror when I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, that it never will matter, and that I’m only engaging in a pointless battle. Maybe it’s an instance of me acting in what Sartre would call ‘bad faith,’ but sometimes it’s what I need to get through the day.  

A song on a record, played at his favorite café, is the one thing that calms his nausea, just for a moment. Roquentin comments on the brief nature of this respite, as “it would take so little for the record to stop: a broken spring, the whim of Cousin Adolphe. How strange it is, how moving that this hardness should be so fragile. Nothing can interrupt it yet all can break it.” Respite from the onslaught of our lives can come quickly, and easily, though it can leave all the same. There is profound joy to be had, but sorrow matches it in strength. This is the terror, and the beauty, of Nausea. I can leave for a party, pleased with myself as I blow a kiss farewell to my mirror, but I know I’ll think differently once I catch a glimpse of my reflection a few hours later.  

Nausea’s ending doesn’t carry its protagonist out of the insipid existentialist fog. Instead, the novel ends with Roquentin thinking about his plans to leave for Paris later in the day. He continues to question if it’s possible for him to find meaning in his existence, though he still doesn’t arrive at an answer. There is no grand call to action to be uncovered within Nausea, though the novel touches me all the same, since Roquentin persists. He’ll feel the nausea creeping in, go about the rest of his day in a stupor, then fall asleep; he can make it through a day in the face of his despair. I care so deeply about this fictional man’s struggles because he persists, despite the nihilism associated with nausea, in a sea of ordinary troubles.  

The novel’s diaristic form adds more weight to this persistence; on a Wednesday, Roquentin writes “Nothing. Existed.” All the same, there is another entry on Thursday. The bleakest moments are followed by descriptions of another day, as we realize that Roquentin made it through the night. Nausea is not a saccharine, inspirational novel about finding hope in the face of adversity, and that’s why I love it. My own story of persistence is not particularly compelling, and that’s the fault; I haven’t solved the mystery of dysphoria. I wish I had answers and a way to share them, as a means to contribute to trans liberation. Yet, I’m bereft of a speech and an audience. Like Roquentin, my story deals with the infuriation of confronting existence without answers. Like Roquentin, I don’t have anything particularly inspirational that gets me through each day. Instead, it’s this bleak, grey, knot of persistence that sits somewhere in my chest. This persistence is quiet and hard to hear some days, but it’s there. Perhaps it’s cliché to say that I see myself in Roquentin, but that’s how the resonance I felt unfolded. Sartre’s use of a bland protagonist helps map the novel’s messaging onto each of us, since it’s easy for us to draw parallels between ourselves and a template of a human being like Roquentin.  

I’m not going to claim that reading Nausea will fill you with any particular hope or resilience. Even so, I think it’s a pertinent read right now. Everyone is scared. The world around us is moving at a breakneck pace and none of us can stop it. We may indeed find respite, but as individuals, it’s fleeting. Nausea shows us how an ordinary man, far from special and not particularly talented, can remain steadfast in a world of endless change. Nausea brings me solace, as it shows how dreary persistence can be. It’s okay to shuffle through to the next day, and it’s fine to wonder if the nausea will be there tomorrow. It’s all right to mope about, scrounging for anything we can do to make ourselves feel better. I love Nausea, because I know these feelings, as nihilism ebbs and flows within all of us. I’m happy for the people that can infuse their lives with grand narratives, curing themselves of this agonizing ennui, but that’s not where I’m at. Right now, my persistence is colorless and arbitrary. I suppose it doesn’t really matter, though, so long as it gets me to the next day.