Nausea

I for some reason thought to myself to finish this even though I obviously did not like it! I shouldn't have! But this is an existentialist work and I loved everything Simone De Beauvoir wrote so I thought oh it will get better!

Dull, repetitive, mundane reflections of a vain character who in turn sees everything to be vain. An attractive face which I no doubt he possesses is a stone in his imagination rolls eyes There are some weird descriptions of women. Like—

“nestling in lace; and the woman picturing her bosom under her blouse, thinking: “My titties, my lovely fruits,” smiling mysteriously, attentive to the swelling of her breasts which tickled . . . then I shouted and found myself with my eyes wide open.
Had I dreamed of this enormous presence? It was there, in the garden, toppled down into the trees, all soft, sticky, soiling everything, all thick, a jelly.”

And it doesn't get better at the end! I mean it gets different I suppose, but barely better. This feels like a barebones philosophy lesson disguised as a barebones fiction book.

This is one of those books from which I come feeling worse after having read them. I need my fix of good work and I need it now! Hopefully the next one will cleanse me.

Now I wonder if Simone was held hostage or is this one of his earlier works or something, maybe his philosophy is better? I bet he made a great case study for her.

I had this false impression this would be a deep study of disgust and the various ways it can be depicted and be interesting, and it was none of those things. The disgust was how bland the protagonist is and very limited in language and ideas.