Saturday, 3 August 2019

Pen in Nausea


I picked up my pen and tried to get back to work; I was sick to death of these reflections on the past, the present, the world. I asked for only one thing: to be allowed to finish my book in peace.
But as my eyes fell on the pad of white sheets, I was struck by its appearance, and I stayed there, my pen raised, gazing at that dazzling paper: how hard and brilliant it was, how present it was. There was nothing in it that wasn't present. The letters which I had just written on it were not dry yet and already they no longer belonged to me.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea, 1938


See also: Quill Dreams

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