I cannot hate a work that never had any potential. After all, what would this world be without senseless fun? I will always be far more disappointed by the works that possess immense potential for exploration, yet fail to be playful, delivering only the most ordinary of mediocrity. Nausea belongs to this category. Indeed, there is not much one can say about Nausea. There is no story to speak of. Not much happens. We primarily pass our time entrenched in Roquentin's musings, emotions, and alienation. No, this is not why I pity this book. This is, in truth, a splendid premise, and these sorts of works do generally appeal to me! The writing is the problem given that it is inelegant and synthetic... or, maybe, it is not... Maybe the writer is the problem? Probably not... Well, clearly not for the majority of the people who have read this work. Maybe the problem is to be found in my longing for every passage to be taken, gobbled up, and spat out by Cioran. Maybe this is not even a problem... If you want to read some philosophical musings, perhaps, emotion and alienation as poetry, simply read Cioran himself. Ignore this book, for everything you can gain from it, you can gain from Cioran's work, and all the more authentically!