“Saturday night [January 14, 1950]
In the morning, cleaning; in the evening, reading and the rest of the time, line work. This is my life. In the soul, a void towards you that sometimes appears to me as an impossible dream, sometimes living in me as my own flesh. In the heart of pain, joy and infinite gratitude. As for the rest, I don’t dare to tell you about it, but I am in a very sad state. I desire you, my love, from morning till night. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never been like this before and I’m even a little ashamed of it. It seems that one gets used to chastity…
Deja la lujuria un mes Elle te dejará tres.*
I am waiting. But I’m afraid that this habit only occurs in general cases. One can, indeed, forget love. But forgetting your love, forgetting you, your body, your high shoulders, your hard legs, your belly, your arms, your fresh skin, your darling face, your lips, your hands, your beautiful hands… do you really think I can forget all that for three months? Oh! Pray to your unknown god that it will be so.
It’s so difficult! Oh, yes. Everything is difficult and everything costs me. Every minute brings me a new effort and I’d like to relax a little. But when I think that at the end of these long weeks you will come back to me, when I imagine you near me again, when I realize that you exist for me, that you are there waiting for me, that you breathe not too far from me, when, at last, I receive your letters, oh, my beautiful love, at such times nothing else in the world could give me such happiness, and I thank life for keeping me so beautifully. I love you, I embrace you strongly, everywhere, with all my love, all my tenderness, all my desire too.
Write. Tell me all your heart. Tell me your life and especially your work. I talked to you at length about myself tonight. Tell me about yourself. I thirst for you. Don’t walk away from me. Tell me everything, even if you have to hurt me a little. No one in the world will love anything you do as much as I do. Tell me about the you I love, the one who’s a little shivery. Let yourself go. Don’t force yourself on me, just because you don’t want to worry or help me. When you strip in front of me, I finally understand why I was born. I love you.
Sunday night [January 15, 1950]
I love you. I’m hot. My bed is huge. There’s too much room for me alone. I talk to you all the time throughout my days. Do you hear me? What are you doing? Where are you? What are you thinking about? I hate Sundays because I’m so sure I don’t get a letter from you in the morning. Darling, write to me. I may have to telephone you.
Replacement for Serge. I’ve heard of three boys who could do it well, I hear. Roland Alexandre, Jean-Claude Michel and another one whose name escapes me, but who, without being the character, has - from what I’ve heard - a lot of talent. I don’t know who they are. What do you want me to do? Answer quickly. Serge has asked that his successor be ready on February 15; but I know that he will play at least until the end of the month. Give me your instructions, dear master. I love you, my darling, my beautiful face, my eyes of light, I love you to death. I love you, my darling. Write. The days are long and hard. I need your letters to live. Go to sleep. Rest now. I’m watching over you and our love.
Monday morning [January 16, 1950]
A few words very quickly before noon. I have just received your letter of Thursday and that of Friday. Fight. That’s what I should have done. But understand me. It wasn’t just a general state of mind (Marcel’s misfortune has nothing to do with it) nor any kind of masochism. It was the result of hours and hours of nostalgia and anguish. It is simply the impossibility that I sometimes have to believe in the happiness that life has kindly given me.
It is also about the thought of this wonderful country that surrounds you - I received your postcard - of the infinite richness that there is in you, of the sun, of this upheaval of light that I see in your room, of a loving neighborhood, of an absence that postpones facts and events, and finally of this superiority that you are always capable of and that is often teeming with great pity and generosity. I imagined myself in your place and wondered if I could hold out. In my situation, everything is easier; temptation doesn’t live my life and I would really have to go looking for it in order to let myself go. You know what I mean?
Days go by and all the time your sorrows, your pains, your torments also come to torture me. I think I know well all your efforts and I thought that perhaps, at the peak of one of these great contractions of the soul, you would need to relax a little. So I imagined you afterwards… unhappy. And if, for a moment, I had been unhappy for myself, I felt then that my whole being was crying out to you to calm you down and soothe you. I love you and I don’t want you to be unhappy. The only thing I ask you is to always speak to me as you do, with your heart.
Ah! My darling love. Is it possible that in some time you will be in front of me, against me! I feel dizzy when I think about it and all the fears of the world are gripping my heart. Forgive me. Catch me. But love me hard, hard. There isn’t a little piece of me that isn’t entirely yours. I’ll answer the rest of your letter tonight. I love you. I am waiting for you patiently and impatiently at once. Take care of yourself. Get some rest. I love you. I believe in you. Forgive me for fearing life and its weariness. I love you and I kiss you so much.”
Maria Casarès to Albert Camus, Correspondance, January 14-15, 1950 [#131]
* Anonymous quotation: “Deja la lujuria un mes / Y te dejará ella tres”, in essence: “one month of lust lost is worth three.”
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