I dined at the Rendezvous des Cherminots. The patronne was there and I had to kiss her, but it was mainly out of politeness. She disgusts me a little. She is too white and besides, she smells like a newborn child. She pressed my head against her breast in a burst of passion: she thinks it is the right thing. I played distracted with her sex under the cover; then, my arm when to sleep.
I thought about de Rollebon: after all, why shouldn't I write a novel on his life? I let my arm run along the woman's thigh and suddenly saw a small garden with low, wide trees on which immense hairy, leaves were hanging. Ants were running everywhere, centipedes and ringworm. There were even more horrible animals: their bodies were made from a slice of toast, the kind you put under roast pigeons; they walked sideways with legs like a crab. The larger leaves were black with beasts. Behind the cactus and the Barbary fig trees, the Velleda of the public park pointed a finger at her sex.
"This park smells like vomit," I shouted.
— Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre.
[ twenty days ]