Letters to Sartre Read online

  Since coming out, I’ve just been for dinner and then sat down at the Dôme to write to you. Perhaps I’ll go and play dominoes with the Gerassis, but what I really want is to go and sleep.

  I had the following thought this morning — and reflected how it was just what needed to be got across in my novel. It’s the fact that when you love someone trustingly — as I love you, or Bienenfeld loves you, or Poupette loves De Roulet (always supposing she’s sincere) — you take each tender act, each word, not as true but rather as a signifying object: a given bit of reality with respect to which the question of truth isn’t posed. By contrast, however, the tender acts or words of the said beloved person with a third party (let’s say with Wanda) appear like constructed objects — they’re ‘bracketed off. The difference is not that you think in one case: ‘He’s telling me the truth’ and in the other: ‘He’s lying to her’. You may very well concede that he isn’t lying to the other person, but truth itself is disarmed here, appearing almost a matter of luck — since it could be false. Whereas in your own case you don’t even have that reflective idea of truth — the bracketing doesn’t occur. This explains how far illusion can go: like Poupette for that woman from Oran, or Bienenfeld for Wanda. Ceasing to be as one, moreover, means effecting that bracketing off for yourself too. Even if you always conclude that it’s true, this reflective faith is not the same thing as an obvious fact. I’ve often explained to you how, from a horror of resembling Poupette or Bienenfeld, I’ve sometimes done that bracketing — which is basically what corresponds to the situation of ‘being a thing in your life’. I’ve always thought that you truly loved me, of course, but at such moments there was your love and me to whom it was addressed. When I say we’re as one, however, it means we’re beneath reflection: our love is realized through our every action and every word. But, you know, I think that after these last weeks and the letters you’ve written me, no good sense could any longer induce me to effect the conversion that extrapolating involves. My love, we’re as one. I feel that I’m you, moreover, as much as you’re myself. I love you, my sweet little one, and never have I felt your love more intensely.

  I don’t know what I’d give to tell you how I love you, and above all how happy I am that you should love me so well. O dear little clipped face, how I long to see you again!

  Your charming Beaver

  Le Dome

  Paris, Monday 9 October [1939] Dear little being

  I’m too tense to write you a long letter. I was so hoping to receive a letter from you with some advice — but nothing yesterday and nothing today. Nothing from Bost either today — is the post back to not working again? Yet we have all the documents ready, or pretty much so, only we can’t do without your instructions — but a swift decision has to be taken. I went to bed very early yesterday after writing to you, and in bed I read a bit of Queneau’s Les Enfants du Limon, which I’m enjoying.158 I find that fellow has talent, and a certain grace in the way he plays with words — I’ll send you the book. [...] I had coffee at the Dome — alone this time — while reading Édouard VII by Maurois, which interests me slightly because it fills in my knowledge of those prewar years. Then I jumped on a bus to Rue Amélie, but the magazine Europe has stopped coming out.159 Then I went back to Rue d’Assas, where Gégé was drawing away. I chatted with her for a while, then rang your mother — very friendly — and we arranged to meet tomorrow. There was a note from Sorokine, who’s now back in Paris, warning me of a possible visit. So I waited for her — but was waiting above all for the post, which brought me only a letter from Bienenfeld. Sorokine came shortly after that, we talked, then I took her out and we had a drink in a little cafe at the Odéon, from which we walked to the Duroc Métro station. On the way she took my arm in a pleasing gesture, and then gave me a look and wriggled in embarrassment — I wasn’t quite sure what to say to her. I feel a bit like some clumsy seducer confronted with a young virgin, as mysterious as all virgins are. Only the seducer at least has a clear mission, which is to seduce and, as it were, pierce the mystery. Whereas, in my own case, I’m simultaneously the prey. It’s a dreadfully awkward situation, and one exclusively confined to pièges.

  I left her, had a bite to eat and am now off to try and see the Gerassis or somebody. I can’t stay in one place, I’m just waiting for tomorrow morning’s mail.

  Goodbye, my love. Perhaps tomorrow evening I’ll be leaving Paris, but it’s far from certain. In any case, write to me from now on at the Hôtel du Danemark, Rue Vavin. I’ll write more properly tomorrow — I love you

  Your charming Beaver

  Le Dome

  [Paris]

  Tuesday evening [10 October 1939]

  My love

  I’ve had three letters from you today: a little note from the 5th, informing me of a first transfer; a charming letter of the 6th, in which you describe how you’re all alone in a village emptied of soldiers — I could really feel how it must have looked; and lastly the letter of the 7th, in which you inform me of a further transfer to an evacuated village. So it’s over, there’s no more hope. I’ve felt terribly agitated all day long — as I have, in fact, all these last days — but now all of a sudden I’m regaining a kind of peace, my will’s uncoupled and my resignation total. My love, my love, how hard it is to be far away from you! I love you so passionately, I’m in floods of tears — but tears of love more than sorrow. You wrote to me so tenderly, my sweet little one, my dear little one, my love! It’s the first time this evening that I fully realize I’m going to be living without you. That it’s going to be a long, long time before I see you — I’d thought that impossible. Without you — I can’t bear the idea. Yourself, my other self, o dear little being, I love you quite desperately.

  I thought I was calm when I began this letter, but now I see I’m not. I’ll try all the same to tell you about my life. Yesterday I went and played dominoes with the Gerassis, and we played for two hours — it was enjoyable. I went back to sleep for the last time in Gégé’s blue bedroom, since Pardo had come back to Paris that very evening. This morning I began shifting my stuff to the Hôtel du Danemark, 21 Rue Vavin. Then I had a bite to eat at the Milk Bar, and after that went to see Sorokine. I found her at home — her parents no longer hate me, God knows why. She was charming, but is utterly desperate because she can’t register at the Sorbonne if she doesn’t have an identity card, or obtain an identity card for less than 500 F. if she’s not registered at the Sorbonne. I’m going to try and get Colette Audry to do something again. I stayed with her from 12.30 till 3.30, then went to meet your mother in a cake-shop near the Gare Saint-Lazare. She was charming — really a nice woman — and told me a few little confidences about her life. Just imagine, I was so on edge today that when I was leaving her and she wished me good luck in going to see you, I shed a few tears — I’m quite overcome by it. I told her you’d be getting your salary — I think that was right? She became very anxious about what clothes you’d wear to go on leave — alas, poor woman! Just come, you’ll always be handsome enough. I called in at Rue d’Assas again, to pick up my mail and a few more bundles, which I’ve just taken up to my room. That’s when I had your letter killing all my hopes. I’ve put away all my things and fixed up my room — I like it enormously, far more than the one at Hôtel Mistral. It’s the same kind of room, but more spacious and agreeable. There’s an immense bed in an alcove, a vast table with shelves for books over it, a handsome and very roomy mirror-wardrobe, heavy curtains in worn red velvet, a sordid screen to hide the basin, and on the floor an appalling, grimy rug. My chair’s padded and upholstered in grimy red, and there’s another plush-covered one. What’s pleasant is the fact that as the curtains are thick, my light-bulb can be left bare — so I’m revelling in decent light. And there’s a bulb over my bed. I’ve really never been so well fixed up. It costs 310 F. a month incl. and is fantastically well-situated. If Wanda needs it to paint, I’ll give it up to her — seeing as it’s the larger — but I’ll be pleased if she makes do with the
next-door room, which isn’t bad either. Tomorrow right away I’m going to get down to my novel. Now that I’m fixed up, I’m even making a few vague plans regarding clothes: I’m going to devote 30 F. to a coat in November. I still have piles of books on my shelves. And I like the idea of starting to write again. It’s all this that momentarily filled my mind and gave me a sense of calm. But then, once I started writing to you, I felt desperate. Now I’m growing calm again.

  Sorokine has given me a tiny photograph album in which I’ve put all your photos. I’ve just looked at them. How I love your face, how moving and strong it is! How I did love your smile! Goodbye. Now I’m waiting only for your letters. My love, you write so well to me, it’s just like a sustained conversation — that’s such a help. On the days when there are no letters, I’m a soul in torment.

  I received a charming note from the Boxers, whom I’ll go and see this very Thursday or Friday perhaps.

  My sweet little one, I kiss you passionately. I wish you could clasp me in your two little arms. Saturday’s precisely our anniversary: 14 October.160 You’ve made such a beautiful life for me, my love, I owe you everything I have, everything I am.

  Oh! this evening I can’t bear not having you any more.

  Your charming Beaver

  Another little note from the Dome. I had such a funny feeling just now. As I wrote to you, and again afterwards, I wept buckets. Then I washed my face, in order to go and have dinner and spend some time at the Dome. But as I was repairing my makeup I saw a powerful picture of myself, which struck me as necessary. I could see the minutes I was about to live swollen by those tears I’d just shed — and it gave the most extraordinary sense of a woman in wartime. And then, with a kind of bewilderment, I thought: ‘It’s me, that woman! Me it’s happening to.’ I looked at that from the depths of Space and Time, and for a moment something in me really escaped historicity. I did actually go and have dinner in Rue Vavin, then come to the Dome to write a little letter to Bost — but my heart wasn’t in it. No letter from him for the past two days — I feel quite strange. I feel as though I were some other person, in a kingdom of shadows, and can’t believe I’ll ever return to being a creature of flesh and blood. It’s funny, when I think about Bost I think also that if I meet up with him again, it’ll be a shadow — a meeting of shadows. But if I think about seeing you again, then life fills me anew — there’ll be earth and light again, and you’ll never be a shadow. O you little absolute, my strength, my only life! I’ll never pay too dearly — be it even by your death, which my own would closely follow — for this marvellous luck of being in the same world as you. My dear love.

  Hôtel du Danemark

  21 Rue Vavin

  [Paris]

  Wednesday 11 October [1939]

  My love

  This superb writing paper belongs to a nice young man who has squeezed in beside me at the Milk Bar — where I’m having dinner — and who’s casting sidelong glances at me. He’s with a pal who’s about to leave, and in another five minutes he’s undoubtedly going to strike up a conversation with me. Actually, I’ll probably ask him for a second sheet. I’m in an excellent mood, unlike yesterday evening — it’s finally resignation that has carried the day. Yet I haven’t had a letter from you today. I just got out of bed on the right side.

  [...]

  I got up this morning full of enthusiasm. I went for a coffee at the counter in the Dome, which I’ll do every morning — I find it delightful. Then I called in to pick up my mail at Gégé’s. There was just a letter from Bost, who’s still exulting about having had one from you. Let me remind you to be sure and send him the detective stories after you’ve read them, and any books that might interest him. I wrote to Bienenfeld, made up my journal, wrote to Bost, then as it was midday had lunch — my restaurant’s at my door, it’s incredibly convenient. At 12.30 I was back in my room with some cigarettes, settling down to reread my novel. I was full of apprehension, scared I’d no longer find it interesting or it would make me wretched. In fact, Tread 100 pages of it — that’s half — and was really encouraged. I find it entertaining and interesting. I could spot the defects all right, but they’re all easy to put right and I’m really pleased with it, that’s why I’m in such a good mood this evening. After that Sorokine turned up and, as in the month of July, pulled me first onto the bed, then — amid sobs — into her arms and towards her mouth; finally, after about an hour, she even drew my hand to specific parts of her body. After this she was nervous and mistrustful, rummaging in my bag and wanting to take my diary. She’s the very image of ‘unripe fruit’ — with moments of agreeable, floating tenderness, but at other times the convulsive movements of an adolescent girl at the awkward age. She told me lots of sweet nothings in Russian, and once in French: ‘I love you so! — I love you so much, so much!’ There’s nothing to be done: here I am, caught up in an affair — and as she has a dreadfully demanding and authoritarian look about her, that’s quite a nuisance. She loves me at least as intensely as Bienenfeld has ever loved me. As for me, of course, I was like a log — I’ll be an asexual being by the war’s end.

  I called in at Gégé’s — where there were only letters of no interest from my mother and my sister — then came here to eat. Now I’m off to say hello to the Gerassis for a quarter of an hour, after which I’ll go home and work. I have an immense desire to work.

  I called on the Gerassis. Alfred161 was there with his wife, a melting blonde. I stayed for only a moment, then came home to finish reading my novel I find it good from the point of view of atmosphere, dialogue, and episodes taken singly — and the last chapter, the big scene during the hundredth performance, I find entirely satisfying. But the subject is still evaded. Pierre’s a failure, even Xavière doesn’t really come off, their relations (Pierre-Xavière) are not filled in properly, and the central subject — Françise’s problem with consciousness, life, etc. — isn’t posed clearly, or at any rate dramatically. There’s lots to redo. But I’m pleased all the same, because it presents a really teeming world, I don’t find the style bad, and there’s a satisfying tone to it. Also it seems quite well constructed, with lots of cross-references. When you come back on leave, it’s too bad but we’ll have to devote a few hours to reading it, since I’ll need your advice so much. For the moment, I’ll be continuing with enthusiasm. The subject strikes me as a topical one, since it basically involves the question of individual happiness coming up against catastrophe — of whatever kind. Tomorrow I’ll tackle the chapter about the illness, which is already well begun.

  Goodbye, my love. Now that I’ll be working, my life will regain a meaning. I’ll go down and post this letter, though it’s raining so hard, then I’ll go to bed and sleep. I love you, my sweet little one. We’re as one person — I love you passionately

  Your charming Beaver

  I left with a smile to the nice young man, whose pal refused to leave so he couldn’t engage me in conversation.

  [Paris]

  Friday 13 October [1939]

  My love

  You had a very dry little letter yesterday. That’s because at half past midnight I still hadn’t been able to finish it off, and I was in the street before going back home and preferred to send off what I’d done rather than nothing. The late hour was due to the appearance in my life of the Lunar Woman, whom I didn’t leave from 6 till midnight and found very entertaining. But I’ll tell you everything in order.

  After writing to you I had lunch, then worked for a bit. Then at 2.30 Sorokine turned up, looking sulky and even wrathful. This was because, the day before, she’d pinched my little black notebook from my bag without my noticing — but then at the bottom of the stairs chickened out and given it back to me — so to scare her I’d put on a fearsome look and said: ‘You did the right thing, otherwise I’d never have seen you again.’ She’d brooded over this furiously all evening, and yesterday she sat down on the bed and burst out into reproaches, followed by tears — whence coaxings, kisses, passionate embraces. S
he has lovely tragic and despairing expressions that wring my heart. I tried to explain how I really cared for her, but she told me in despair: ‘It’s so unequal, though — I have the fifth place in your life!’ And with sure instinct she told me she could overlook you, Bost (about whom I’ve told her almost nothing), and Kosakiewitch, but she hated my red-haired girl friend.162 I was as tender as I could be — though without making any promises — and eventually she recovered her composure and began to look almost happy. Above all, she seemed relaxed and trusting, without the somewhat jarring hostility of those other times. She’s charming when she’s like that — her face all transfigured, and childish, and pathetic, and so on and so forth. If Bienenfeld didn’t exist, I’d assuredly give her that place. Well, I’ll be seeing something of her this year and we’ll see, but I am slightly worried.