Antoine Roquentin 30
Twelve hundred francs a month isn’t a fortune. But if I economize a little it should be enough. A room for three hundred francs, fifteen francs a day for food: that leaves four hundred and fifty francs for laundry, incidentals, and the cinema. I won’t need new clothes for a long time. Both my suits are clean, even if they’re a little shiny at the elbows: they’ll last me another three or four years if I care of them.
Good lord! Is it I who is going to lead that mushroom existence? What am I going to do all day long? I’ll go for walks. I’ll go and sit in the Tuileries Gardens on an iron chair – or rather on a bench, to save money. I’ll go and read in the libraries. And then what? Once a week the cinema. And then what? Shall I go and play croquet with the pensioners in the Luxembourg Gardens? At the age of thirty! I feel sorry for myself. There are times when I wonder if I wouldn’t do best to spend in one year the three hundred thousand francs I have left – and afterwards … But what would that give me? New suits? Women? Travel? I’ve had all that, and now it’s over, I don’t feel like it any more: not for what I’d get out of it! A year from now I’d find myself as empty as I am today, without even a memory and afraid to face death.
Thirty years old! And an annual income of 14,400 francs. Dividend coupons to cash every month. Yet I’m not an old man! Let them give me something to do, no matter what…
· Nausea (La Nausée) (Trans. Robert Baldick)

