Nausea (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Jean-Paul Sartre

And this is the meaning of its existence: it is that it is a consciousness of being superfluous. It dilutes itself, it scatters itself, it tries to lose itself on the brown wall, up the lamp-post, or over there in the evening mist. But it never forgets itself; it is a consciousness of being a consciousness which forgets itself. That is its lot.

know perfectly well that I don’t want to do anything; to do something is to create existence – and there’s quite enough existence as it is.