SARTRE (Jean-Paul). Professor of philosophy. French writer, playwright and philosopher. Major figure in French intellectual life in the 60s. L.A.S. "JP Sartre" to "Ma chère petite Merveille" [Wanda Kosakiewicz]. S.l. [Paris], s.d. [March - August 1938]. 7 pages in-4. 2 pp. on letterhead of the brasserie "Le Dôme" in Montparnasse and 1 p. on letterhead of the "Café des Mousquetaires". VERY IMPORTANT AND LONG PRE-WAR LETTER TO HIS LOVER: SARTRE REVIEWS THE AMERICAN WRITER DOS PASSOS AT LENGTH (an article by Sartre on Dos Passos had been published in the NRF in February 1938), HEMINGWAY, HIS FRIENDS STEPHA, DE ROULET AND POUPETTE [Simone de Beauvoir's sister], ANSCHLUSS, THE ULTIMATUM FROM GERMANY TO LITHUANIA... HIS FUTURE MARRIAGE TO WANDA ...Sartre begins his letter by expressing a feeling of nervousness towards Lionel de Roulet [future husband of Hélène de Beauvoir, Simone's younger sister]: ...I am writing to you, this is my only pleasant moment between now and four in the afternoon. De Roulet, who has just been X-rayed, really does have Pott's disease; Poupette [Hélène de Beauvoir] came to tell Le Castor yesterday, her eyes full of tears (...). The Beaver and I are very surprised by De Roulet's determination to celebrate these misfortunes with pomp and circumstance. It would never occur to me to invite people to watch me die. I know that if I were to die, I would first of all have a violent desire to see you and I would do anything for that. But I don't think I'd tell you that I'm going to die so that I can see you one last time as if nothing had happened. But now we're all going to be paralysed and freezing (...). And then the Beaver grumbles: "These people are just appearances. Lionel wanting to see you is understandable. But why me, whom he doesn't like, who doesn't like him, if not out of some empty will of a funeral director? Anyway, we'll ditch him soon. But let's leave that... As for the war, well, it was threatening for two or three days and now it's a little less immediate. Among other things, I was wondering what would become of you if I left, since I would have no money left (apart from 2 sous a day: they don't pay my salary any more) and I decided to marry you quickly, if that happened, so that in Paris you would receive the allowance of 1,000 francs (more or less) that is paid to the wives of civil servants. I will make enquiries. Naturally, we wouldn't say anything to your parents or mine, and we'd divorce quietly after the war. But all this is just to reassure you and persuade you that in any case I will arrange for your prison to open in October. As for the causes of the 'international tension', as the newspapers say, I'm a bit bored, as I'm sure you are, of writing about it here, but I'll give you a full account of the whole thing, from the Treaty of Versailles to the Anschluss, on 2 March in Rouen; that'll take a little spare hour here or there... Then he makes a long digression about Dos Passos, the author of Manhattan Transfer: ...I know almost nothing about John Dos Passos. In that case, you'll think I'm being very rash, overconfident and light-hearted to write an article about him. It's just that you're not up on literary mores: it's done. Besides, I had a few things to say about his book. About his book but not about him. I ended my article with the words (did I tell you?) "I consider Dos Passos to be the greatest writer of our time" and if this guy is polite, he'll send me a little note to say "thank you" and I'll give you this little note so that you can see how he writes. Here are a few things though: firstly I think he's a Spanish American (but you'd have guessed that on your own). Secondly, I think that, although he's a socialist, he's more of a petit-bourgeois intellectual by origin: it seems certain to me that he went to the best American universities and I suspect that when he was young he was involved in pure art - like surrealism or something - and I'm not sure how he became a socialist. Maybe it came from the war. He must have fought in the war in France and was profoundly affected by it: in the end, almost everything he wrote (Three Soldiers - 42nd Parallell, 1919) is about what happened in New York and France during the war. He even wrote a little book called Initiation d'un homme (Initiation of a Man), which I think tells his own story during the war, his disgust, his fears at the front, his wedding in the rear and, finally, his deep disgust. So, as you can see, this is exactly the kind of post-war type, in other words, those for whom the war was an initiation, those for whom it counted and who were able to say 'after'. Neither you nor I are one of those people because the war didn't count for us. You didn't live through it - I did, but I was a kid and naturally I would say that I "hated the Krauts" because I was a bastard. But I started living afterwards and I didn't give a damn. For those pleasant and disgusted people from 1919-1925 that I was talking about (including the Dadaists and Surrealists), they were post-war. I think you understand that you can't live through a war without being scarred to the core, unless you're the worst of the worst. Now the post-war period is over, a new 'pre-war' is beginning, and Dos Passos is already slightly in the past [Sartre had been interested in US writers, Faulkner and Dos Passos] (...) But the real reason for Stepha's [Beauvoir's friend] antipathy was that she had with her in Madrid an American writer younger (by a long chalk) than Dos Passos, Hemingway, who had a lot to say about him. He's a talented guy who seems like a nice guy, always drunk and lying through his teeth. He lived in a hotel in the area most often bombed and his greatest pleasure on alert nights was to go and listen at the doors to hear the sighs of fear and pleasure of couples disturbed in their embrace and torn between terror and the desire to continue making love. I'll give you the facts for what they're worth... Talking of nice, why don't we talk about you, you little marvel? Do you know that you are famously sympathetic? I'd like to know if you're comfortable inside and a bit vain. I have to be. For me, I can finally think of you, whom I love so much, as someone who will not have a destiny (that is, something that happens through no fault of our own) but a life [Sartre opposed Determinism]. You make me even more moving and precious, but less fragile, and I feel you are very close to me. As long as I had no letter from you, I was morose and I thought it was because of the war. But as soon as I received your letter, I saw the world as rosy. And every time there was news of something more unpleasant and gloomy (the defeat of the Spanish, which is a disgusting piece of shit, or the German threats, or Poland's ultimatum to Lithuania), I felt bad for a while, but I could distract myself whenever I wanted by thinking of you, as someone patient and determined to make a human life for himself. I love you. I am so happy that you are not only all graceful and charming, with undeserved happiness in your thoughts, but also moral and ready to conquer land over yourself, as the Dutch conquer arable land over the sea. The charming and precious little lands that will emerge from the ocean. You must send me all the drawings and sketches [Wanda was taking drawing lessons], even the ones you're not too happy with, I'll take them to Poupette's and send them back to you soon. I'm going to buy you a wonderful book: Kafka's Metamorphosis (have you read the Trial? Did you like it?). I'll bring it to you in Rouen. I'll tell you right away that you have a train to Rouen at 10.23am, arriving at midday. I won't be able to get to Rouen until 1pm, as the trains don't fit together, and I apologise for not arriving first. Please write to me if you need money to come and I'll send you 100 francs. Farewell, Wanda des Merveilles... Simone and Hélène de BEAUVOIR: One blonde, the other brunette. One a painter, the other a writer; one wise, the other a rebel. Despite their differences, Hélène and Simone de Beauvoir were united by an unshakeable love that neither time nor aesthetic or political differences could dent. While Simone obtained her agrégation in philosophy and met Jean-Paul Sartre, Hélène held her first painting exhibition under the watchful eye of Picasso. When the Second World War broke out, the two sisters were separated. In Lisbon, Hélène married one of Sartre's students, Lionel de Roulet, an active supporter of Free France, and produced her first series of paintings depicting daily life in Portugal. Simone remained in France during the Occupation and published her first novel, L'Invitée.