A term you'll meet in French and modernist literature.
The French word ennui entered English as a loanword in the 18th century, but it has never quite settled. Translators reach for "boredom," which loses the weight, or "weariness," which loses the philosophical edge. In literary contexts, the word does specific work that neither English substitute can do.
In modern French, ennui can mean trouble, annoyance, or boredom — quite ordinary feelings. A French speaker complaining about a flat tire might say "quel ennui." This is not the literary sense.
The literary ennui is heavier, slower, and more metaphysical. It is the boredom of someone who has every comfort and finds that comfort intolerable.
Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary (1856) is the novel that crystallized literary ennui. Emma Bovary has a husband, a child, a house, a village. She finds them all unendurable — not because they are bad, but because the gap between her imagination and her actual life is so wide it becomes a chronic pain.
That pain is ennui. It is not the boredom of having nothing to do; it is the boredom of having nothing that matches the size of your inner life.
In Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal, ennui is upgraded into a kind of demon. In the prefatory poem "Au Lecteur," he names ennui as the worst of all human vices — worse than cruelty, worse than greed — because it is the one that dreams of swallowing the world while doing nothing. (For the related but distinct mood Baudelaire calls spleen, see our entry on spleen in Baudelaire.)
Sartre's Nausea and Camus's The Stranger are both built on a foundation of ennui, though neither uses the word much. The defining modern symptom — the feeling that nothing matters, including the feeling that nothing matters — is the late descendant of Flaubert's Emma and Baudelaire's poet-narrator.
When a character in a 19th-century novel is described as suffering from ennui, do not picture them yawning. Picture them at a beautiful dinner table unable to lift the fork, because the gap between what life promised and what it delivered has just opened underneath their chair.
That is the literary ennui — and once you've read it that way, you'll see it everywhere from Chekhov to Houellebecq.
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