I may not have enjoyed it but I certainly appreciated a lot about this novel. Perhaps, if I had read it when I was younger, and more terrified of solitude, the descriptions of nausea would have connected with me on a more emotional level, but I found myself smiling at Sartre's writerly craft, his descriptions of a philosophical conceit, his lively scenes of dialogue, without being very touched. Not a bad way to spend 178 pages but not a book I'm going to brood over as I have with works by Camus. I think I'm fine with that.