"For the moment, the jazz is playing; there is no melody, just notes, a
myriad of tiny tremors. The notes know no rest, an inflexible order
gives birth to them then destroys them, without ever leaving them the
chance to recuperate and exist for themselves…. I would like to hold
them back, but I know that, if I succeeded in stopping one, there would
only remain in my hand a corrupt and languishing sound. I must accept
their death; I must even want that death: I know of few more bitter or
intense impressions."
Náusea, Sartre
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