I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of out time - the time of purple suspenders, and broken chair seats; it is made of white, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years.
Jean-Paul SartreAbout author
- Author's profession: Philosopher, Writer
- Nationality: french
- Born: June 21, 1905
- Died: April 15, 1980
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You let me handle Marius," I said. "Now, you didn't come without you dagger."No, I did not," he said, lifting his cloak to reveal it, "And with your permission I would like to plunge it through my heart now so I will most assuredly stone-cold dead before the Master of this house arrives home to find you runnning rampant in his garden!"Permission denied.
Anne Rice
