Goodbye, my love. How I yearn to speak to you, and touch you. How hard these layers of silence are! I kiss you most passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Thursday 2 January [1941]
My dear love
My soul’s still wracked with longing to see you. I wrote to you yesterday from the Flore, then dined with my parents and met Bost at the 2 Magots. He was tired and in low spirits, because the idea of teaching again makes him literally ill. We went home to bed very early, in a little prostitutes’ hotel in Rue St André des Arts. This morning I’d arranged to meet Bianca at the Dome, and I found her at 9.30 looking radiant because she’s staying in Paris after all and marrying Lamblin in a month’s time.
[...]
I feel terribly melancholy. When shall I see you again? — that’s all I wonder from dawn to dusk. Goodbye, my love — how impatiently I’m waiting for your next letter! I kiss you most passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Friday 3 January [1941]
My dear little one
So the holiday season’s over now, but I’m prolonging it a bit — I won’t get down to work till Monday. Well, last night we came home early and I was able to assess how painful the wretched Bost finds having to give lessons. From 5 in the morning on, he could no longer sleep — but was turning on the light with a jerk every half-hour, to see what time it was. As a result I slept very badly. I rose to find an icy-cold day. They can’t manage to clear the Paris streets of snow, and though in places it’s white and poetic, in others it’s just slush. I went to the Dome and met Sorokine — more affecting than ever. I’ve told you — I think? — how touching I found her, when she was explaining how she’d realized she had her own life outside me, without for all that ceasing to love me. She’s now devoid of jealousy, no longer demanding, and quite movingly generous and affectionate. I love her more and more. She had a delightful face, roughened and reddened by the cold. She has written to her young man, explaining that she can’t love him but offering him friendship. He has answered in low-key fashion — and showering me with compliments — but pretending to confuse the proposed friendship with true love. His letters aren’t nice. I took Sorokine on some errands: to make my tax declaration, which was shamefully late, and to collect some dough. Then we had lunch and from 1 to 3 I did some Kant and Kierkegaard before going off to school. My little one, I’m living in dread again. I’d fixed on the hope of seeing you back for Christmas, and now I no longer dare hope for anything. How painful I find it, too, no longer to know your moods and thoughts in detail. I miss you so, dear little flesh-and-blood person living elsewhere — and whom I’d so like to see safely back. I love you more than ever.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Sunday 5 January [1941]
My love
I’m writing to you from the Dome. It’s one o’clock and the place is full of people eating. The weather’s none too warm. I wonder anxiously whether you’re not dying of cold. There are so many things I’d like to know about you. Do you have papers there? Wireless? What’s the situation with your writings? Aren’t you interested in anything except the theatre any more? And also: how do you feel about these letters? Are you still interested in what’s going on in our little world, or is it merely like watching a film? As for me, after writing to you I went yesterday to a concert at the Atelier. They were playing Franck’s Quintet, which I was hearing for the third time and which is splendid. I was very amused, because I found myself sitting next to Magali and Eloy de Staecklin, and she was complaining bitterly that he’d taken poor seats — while he was too mean to admit the fact. They had a real shouting-match, but eventually moved down to the stalls. After that, I went to meet Sorokine in a little café near the Arts et Metiers that’s a genuine brothel.299 As a rule they don’t serve unaccompanied women — to the point where Wanda and Sorokine (in the days when they used to frequent each other’s company) once got themselves chucked out — but they let me stay all the same. There were only tarts there, and an exotic clientele, and a mechanical piano in lieu of a phonograph. It was crowded and warm. Sorokine was distressed because her young man was returning home that very night, so she couldn’t avoid giving her evening up to him. I was a bit disappointed — I’d liked the idea of spending 24 hours with her — but, urging her warmly to postpone that for a few days, I telephoned M. Ponty instead, met up with him at the Dôme, and spent the evening with him. He paid me vast compliments on my novel (the 1st part), telling me it was ‘great’: in spite of everything, that really did encourage me. He also told me how he’d slept with Piquard (his former pupil — a girl friend of Bienenfeld’s and one of my probationers). He took her home and kissed her, and she promptly said: ‘I love you.’ He answered (approximately): ‘Oh, don’t mention it’ — and upended her. Afterwards he thought she was pregnant, but it was a false alarm. She threatened sentimental complications, but he more or less broke it off almost at once. He seeks erotic conversation with me — just like the old headmaster300 — and I find him nauseating. Apart from that, Kos. hasn’t come back — since the trains are blocked by snow. Goodbye, my dear, dear love. I’m joined to you in passion.
Your charming Beaver
Envelope
KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST
Sartre Jean-Paul
GEFANGENENNUMMER (Prisoner number) 10788
Lager-Bezeichnung (Camp name) STALAG XII-D
DEUTSCHLAND (Germany)
[Paris — Official Form)
Tuesday 7 January [1941]
My love
I’m still very glum — perhaps when I get back to work again it’ll be better, but I feel slack after this fortnight on holiday — and the weather’s cold and grey and dismal. [...] This morning I went to school, then installed myself at the Dôme and worked like a dream from midday till 4. I’m redoing the second part and think everything will be finished by Easter. My heart’s breaking all the time as I work, because it involves our past and yourself, my sweet little one. Yesterday, too, I had tears in my eyes as I read an article on Heidegger — and recalled that journey through Provence when you were explaining it to me. My little one, I feel like weeping all the time these days. I love you so, with such a yearning for your face and your affection. Intellectual solitude’s no burden to me, nor the fact of being alone in general. It’s you I miss, your smiles, the little nape of your neck that I remember so well, and all that warmth one feels in your presence. My love. I ended the day at Merleau-Ponty’s, alone in his cosy room listening to some splendid Franck and some Bach. I listened for 3½ hours without feeling tired, then met Kos. at the Dôme — she’d arrived on Monday by roundabout ways. She was thoroughly amiable and pleasant, and we spent a very good evening. Goodbye, my dear, dear love. I’m wasting away with longing to see you. Do think about me.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Wednesday 8 January [1941]
My love
So yesterday evening I slipped on ski-trousers and pullover and went to bed, where I read Eddington on modern science — it was mildly entertaining, even though he’s so stupid.301 Then I went to sleep. I’d promised Sorokine to spend 24 hours with her, and she came and woke me up at 8 in the morning. We spent a very agreeable day. [...] We came home to stuff ourselves with pate and chocolate, talk and sleep.
Thursday
My love. I’m having trouble writing to you — I’m more disoriented and tragic than for a long while. First, it’s apparently the last day one can write freely. Also, I want to see you too much. Yesterday evening I was recalling ballets I’d seen with you at the Opéra and I felt like weeping. I’m constantly coming up against memories that rend me apart. Also, I’ve just read the latest N.R.F. and it’s so stupid and contemptible that I was shattered by it. Yesterday I was telling you that intellectual solitude didn’t bother me much. But when it takes on cosmic pr
oportions it shatters me — and Hegel, who was such a comfort to me last August, no longer consoles me. There’s not so much of my life left that I can calmly accept sacrificing years of it — and years without you (or months, or weeks) are a meaningless measure.
If this is my last letter for a long while, I wouldn’t all the same like to leave you on a falsely gloomy note. Like you, I too have the hope that every ordeal is a step forward; and I feel this year just over has well and truly delivered me from a rationalist false optimism. I think I’ve internalized myself, and made myself more authentic than in former days — I truly believe this is no illusion. But whether I’m depressed or of good heart, the fact remains that one thing alone counts for me: to see you again, and to recover your thought, your reality, your presence — and also your love and your expressions. You’re everything to me, for always.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Monday 20 January [1941]
My love
I stopped writing to you, because they claimed letters were no longer being accepted — but apparently they are. Apart from that, I’ve been so seared by grief during the past 10 days that I’ve scarcely had any desire any longer to write. I have constant nightmares about you: you come back (since I think it’s impossible directly to dream an absence), but you don’t love me any more and I’m filled with despair. At times, not knowing when I’ll see you again has me literally fighting for breath. Today I feel better, because on Saturday I saw your mother and she gave me news of you. I’m so pleased the performance was a splendid success! So pleased to think that your life over there retains a meaning, and that you’re interested in it! [...] As for me, my love, my joy hangs upon you. I knew very well that I loved you, but I love you even more than I knew.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Tuesday 21 January [1941]
My love
It’s raining, and the weather today is damp and gloomy. I’ve given myself two days’ leave on the pretext of flu.
[...]
I spent almost 6 hours working away at the back of the Dôme, interrupted only by a brief conversation with the Lunar Woman, who’s the same as ever though pregnant. The Lunar Man will be really amazed if he finds a brat when he gets back. Apparently, some fellows from your camp are going to be set free. I’m going crazy with impatience waiting for someone to turn up who can give me news of you. My love, I live only in the past and the future. I do nothing but wait for you.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Wednesday 22 January [1941]
My sweet little one
Well, I spent a studious day yesterday, then went to Kos.’s for dinner.
[...]
The other day I caught sight of Gibert, who seems to have given up acting. She’s even preparing to take an agrégation in philosophy: she wanted to do her probation under me, which would have made me laugh, but I don’t think it’ll happen. I came home at 10.30 and read in bed — some detective stories and pornographic books that Sorokine passed on to me — but that kind of literature is disappointingly monotonous. Then I came back to work at the Dôme. I have an hour’s teaching to do, then I’ll have lunch with Bost and work again. Goodbye, my love — I so long for some letters and news! I’ll send you Hegel’s Phenomenology in the next parcel, so you’ll be able to improve your education. Goodbye, little best beloved, my dear love, my life.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Thursday 23 January [1941]
My love
I’m upstairs at the Flore and it’s 7 in the evening. It’s agreeable, because you can hear all the people swarming beneath you, yet you’re totally peaceful — between two tables occupied by chess players. I’ve regained all my peace of mind, since I had news of you and began writing to you again. This morning I sent you 1,000 F. and hope you’ll receive them safely — I’ll send some more each month. Yesterday I worked well in the morning, went to school, had lunch with Bost, wasted an hour at the Sorbonne collecting a few books, then saw Bost again for 2 hours — after which I inspected my books at the Mahieu. I’ve read Scheler’s Ressentirnerit,302 which I found very weak. I’m dying to do some real philosophy — there’s heaps of stuff I’ve now assimilated - but by God! how I long for some solid discussions! How I yearn to talk to you! If I were condemned for long never to talk, I’d end up writing philosophy, from the need to express myself. I got down to Hegel again with my pupils this morning, and I find him interesting, even though I’ve become a bit repelled by his system.303 At this moment, I feel my metaphysical situation as acutely as I used to during my youth - probably out of loneliness — and it’s the only true wealth of my life. On the other hand, my work is going well and books and music still interest me. But the whole of our little world is really rather small. You know, you aren’t characterized by ‘ressentiment’ — even though you’ve claimed to be — you’re precisely in the camp of what Simmel and Scheler call ‘genius’, which is just the opposite. My beloved, I love you. I long to talk to you — as intensely as I long to kiss you.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Sunday 26 January [1941]
My love
Yesterday, after leaving Kos. at 10, I met up with Bost. We talked late into the night — till 2 — and got up only just in time to go and have lunch at the Capoulade. We talked some more in the afternoon — at table, and then strolling around a bit — he’s very agreeable during the genuine conversations I sometimes have with him. I’ve got something of an itch to write some philosophy — my head’s bursting with ideas.
My little one, the more I see people, the more I marvel at all that makes you so different from anyone else. I’m for ever rediscovering — with the bitterest sorrow — one or other of your virtues and being moved to tears by it. I love you, with passion, my little one. I cover your dear face with kisses.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Monday 27 January [1941]
My dear little one
Here’s another peaceful day well spent. I spent the morning with Bost, worked for 2 hours, went to school, then saw Bienenfeld for a while. Mouloudji joined us, which bothered her but not me — since he interests me more than she does. Then I had dinner with Kos. at the Milk Bar. You can see how my weeks are made up — as regular as the rules on music-paper. I’m up at about 8, then my day’s spent in school, work, and conversation with Bost. I always have lunch with him, except on Thursday when I go to my parents. I see Sorokine twice for 2 hours, and the same with Bienenfeld. As for the evenings, I see Kos. one evening out of two, usually in her room where she cooks a bit for me. I go home early and read for a good hour in bed. On two evenings I see Sorokine at her place. She cooks pasta for me and I stay overnight — they’re always agreeable evenings. Once a week, I’m bored with Bienenfeld. And finally, every Saturday I meet up with Bost at about 8 and stay with him until the Sunday concert. There are few unexpected events: a concert here and there, an hour with Mouloudji, a meal with Zuorro or Merleau-Ponty. Things really couldn’t be arranged better — I’ve lots of time for everything without being too much on my own. It’s decent, for a temporary life. But there are moments when I’m quite consumed by the longing to recover my true life, which was so full, so rich, so gay — because it was you, my love. I love you without respite. I’m waiting for you constantly.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Thursday 30 January [1941]
My sweet little one
I saw your mother yesterday at the Bon Marché and gave her news of you, then went and worked at the Dôme till evening, when I had dinner with Kos. [...] Bienenfeld has written me another little impassioned, desolate letter, but it left me cold. I hope that marriage, and above all the honeymoon, will calm her down. Goodbye, my dear, dear love. You’ve been ever present to me
since I had your letter. I have peace of mind again, and sleep without nightmares. I love you, and kiss you passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Friday 31 January [1941]
Dear little being
I blew in to the Dôme at 8.30, all agog at the idea of reading Perry Mason and the Lame Canary, which the N.R.R. had sent me yesterday along with M. Aymé’s La Belle Image and a book by Bosco.304 But then who should show up but M. Ponty, and I can’t decently take out a detective story under his very nose.