Yesterday, I found myself sitting in a table by the sidewalk. We were eating at this famous ramen place along the main Japanese street here in Dusseldorf. I began to feel uneasy around my companions, the people around me, and the rest of the world. I am not sure if this is what Sartre was referring to with "nausea". All night, I had to fight this profound feeling of contempt for every human being, especially and including myself.
On the plane, on my way here, I finished Eugene Ionesco's The Hermit. It felt like reading through my own diary. It was a lot of fun until I realised the protagonist's ending could also be my own.
The last line of the book reads:
"I took it as a sign."
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