Free Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre Page A

cards and photos on his lap: Spain and Spanish Morocco.
    But I see by his laughing, open look that I have been singularly mistaken in hoping to reduce him to silence. He glances over a view of San Sebastian from Monte Igueldo, sets it cautiously on the table and remains silent for an instant. Then he sighs:
    "Ah, Monsieur, you're lucky ... if what they say is true-travel is the best school. Is that your opinion, Monsieur?"
    I make a vague gesture. Luckily he has not finished.
    "It must be such an upheaval. If I were ever to go on a trip, I think I should make written notes of the slightest traits of my character before leaving, so that when I returned I would be able to compare what I was and what I had become. I've read that there are travellers who have changed physically and morally to such an extent that even their closest relatives did not recognize them when they came back."
    He handles a thick packet of photographs, abstractedly. He takes one and puts it on the table without looking at it; then he stares intently at the next picture showing Saint Jerome sculptured on a pulpit in the Burgos cathedral.
    "Have you seen the Christ made of animal skins at Burgos? There is a very strange book, Monsieur, on these statues made of animal skin and even human skin. And the Black Virgin? She isn't at Burgos but at Saragossa, I think? Yet there may possibly be one at Burgos. The Pilgrims kiss her, don't they?ù the one at Saragossa, I mean. And isn't there the print of her foot on a stone?ùin a holeùwhere the mothers push their children?"
    Stiffly he pushes an imaginary child with his hands. You'd think he was refusing the gifts of Artaxerxes.
    "Ah, manners and customs, Monsieur, they are . . . they are curious."
    A little breathless, he points his great ass's jawbone at me. He smells of tobacco and stagnant water. His fine, roving eyes shine like globes of fire and his sparse hair forms a steaming halo on his skull. Under this skull, Samoyeds, Nyam-Nyams, 34
    Malgaches and Fuegians celebrate their strangest solemnities, eat their old fathers, their children, spin to the sound of tomtoms until they faint, run amok, burn their dead, exhibit them on the roofs, leave them to the river current in a boat, lighted by a torch, copulate at random, mother with son, father with daughter, brother with sister, mutilate themselves, castrate themselves, distend their lips with plates, have monstrous animals sculptured on their backs.
    "Can one say, with Pascal, that custom is second nature?" He has fixed his black eyes on mine, he begs for an answer. "That depends," I say. He draws a deep breath.
    "That's just what I was saying to myself, Monsieur. But I distrust myself so much; one should have read everything."
    He almost goes mad over the next photo and shouts joyfully: "Segovia! Segovia! I've read a book about Segovia!" Then he adds with a certain nobility:
    "Monsieur, I don't remember the name any more. I sometimes have spells of absent-mindedness . . . Na . . . No . . . Nod . . ."
    "Impossible," I tell him quickly, "you were only up to Lavergne."
    I regret my words immediately: after all, he had never told me about his reading methods, it must have been a precious secret. And in fact, his face falls and his thick lips jut out as if he were going to cry. Then he bows his head and looks at a dozen more post cards without a word.
    But after thirty seconds I can see that a powerful enthusiasm is mounting in him and that he will burst if he doesn't speak: "When I've finished my instruction (I allow six more years for that) I shall join, if I am permitted, the group of students and professors who take an annual cruise to the Near East. I should like to make some new acquaintances," he says unctuously. "To speak frankly, I would also like something unexpected to happen to me, something new, adventures."
    He has lowered his voice and his face has taken on a roguish look.
    "What sort of adventures?" I ask him, astonished.
    "All sorts, Monsieur.