We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but
when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what w
But when it comes to thought, it is I who continue it, I who
unwind it. I exist. I think I exist. Oh, how long and serpentine this feeling
of existing is – and I unwind it, slowly….If only I could prevent myself from
thinking! I try, I succeed: it seems as if my head is filling with smoke….And
now it starts again: ‘Smoke…. Mustn’t think…. I don’t want to think….I think
that I don’t want to think. I mustn’t think that I don’t want to think. Because
it is still a thought. Will there never be an end to it?
My thought is me: that is why I can’t stop. I exist
by what I think… and I can’t prevent myself from thinking.
From Nausea, by Jean-Paul Sartre