What a depressing book. This novel is almost anti-plot with a vehement psychological bent which I appreciate. As far as my literary exposure is concerned, an author's bleak worldly purview has never been expressed in such sorrowfully succinct prose.
The book is written from the perspective of Antoine Roquentin and detailed through journal entries. An ambivalent, crumbling relationship; delusion; existential crises; a bitter distaste for one's own existence; self-imposed social isolation; contending with absurdity and finding oneself "in the midst of things, nameless things," are the prevalent themes in this book.
This book is best read while in the throes of depression and under the nauseating influence of an empty, churning stomach.