I found these quotes to be fascinating, considering the source:
“Now when I say ‘I’, it seems hollow to me. I can’t manage to feel myself very well, I am so forgotten. The only real thing left in me is existence which feels it exists. I yawn, lengthily. No one.”
“A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness. (…) and suddenly the ‘I’ pales, pales, and fades out. Lucid, forlorn, consciousness is walled-up; it perpetuates itself. Nobody lives there any more. A little while ago someone said ‘me’, said my consciousness. Who? Outside there were streets, alive with known smells and colors. Now nothing is left but anonymous walls, anonymous consciousness.”
“Consciousness exists as a tree, as a blade of grass. It slumbers, it grows bored.”
“It dilutes, scatters itself, tries to lose itself on the brown wall, along the lamp post or down there in the evening mist. But it never forgets itself. That is its lot.”
“There is knowledge of the consciousness. It sees through itself, peaceful and empty between the walls, freed from the man who inhabited it, monstrous because empty.”
- from Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre
