And I— soft, weak, obscene, digesting, juggling with dismal thoughts— I, too, was In the way. Fortunately I didn’t feel it, although I realised it, but I was uncomfortable because I was afraid of feeling it (even now I am afraid— afraid that it might catch me from behind my head and lift me up like a wave). I dreamed vaguely of killing myself to wipe out at least one of these superfluous lives. But even my death would have been In the way; my corpse, my blood on these stones, between these plants, at the back of this smiling garden. And the decomposed flesh would have been In the way in the earth which would receive my bones, at last, cleaned, stripped, peeled, proper and clean as teeth, it would have been In the way: I was In the way for eternity.
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea
