He had waited so long: his latter years had been no more than a stand-to. Oppressed with countless little daily cares, he had waited: of course he had run after girls all that time, he had travelled, and naturally he had had to earn his living. But through all that, his sole care had been to hold himself in readiness. For an act. A free, considered act; that should pledge his whole life, and stand at the beginning of a new existence. He had never been able to engage himself completely in any love-affair, or any pleasure, he had never been really unhappy: he always felt as though he were somewhere else, that he was not yet wholly born. He waited. And during all that time, gently, stealthily, the years had come, they had grasped him from behind ...
Jean-Paul Sartre, from 'The Age of Reason'

People tend to think of Sartre first and foremost as a philosopher. I don't. I think of him as a great novelist, the equal of Flaubert and others who came before him. One thing's for sure, I'd rather read 'Nausea' or 'The Age of Reason' than 'Being and Nothingness' any day.