#maria casares
“Monday 3 p.m. [January 16, 1950]
Your letter at last! How weightless, how light the air is, how I breathe better! Just think: nothing since Friday, nothing since that sad letter… But it’s all over, the sun that floods into my room is leaping up and down all over the place. I love you and I’ll wait, yes I’ll wait for everything to find you at last, alive, happy, desiring… Yesterday I completed my program. That is to say, I wrote sixteen letters. There are still as many left. But I’ve worked out a little form that I’ll send to all the unwelcome and even to the others. It’s like, “Mr. AC, who is ill, apologizes for not being able to… etc.” With this I’ll liquidate everything and I’ll be able to think about my work at leisure.
I’m so ashamed that I’ve done almost nothing in two weeks! On the other hand, my appetite has returned. I look good and I seem to have put on weight. I sleep much better. From time to time an insomnia of two or three hours, but more rare. I am afraid of them, because then the imagination works too much. Last night I went through your whole life, I mean everything I know about it. Then I wait for the morning and the sun that puts the shadows on the run. Last night Kim’s master came to pick him up. He had dinner here and I said goodbye to the beast.
I don’t care if you sum up your days. But do this for me: be clear. Never put: “At 4 o'clock, an appointment.” Say with whom. I know it’s stupid, but it helps me. You understand me, by the way. You did well to advise Serge in the sense that you’re telling me. There’s no reason to deceive the audience. This Chinese system goes well with the Elite Theater! My dear love, my black, my beautiful, my lukewarm, what a desire I have for your presence, your warmth. I think of the little room suspended above Paris, of the falling evening, of the glow of the radiator and of us, linked to each other, in the penumbra… I also dream that I am walking through Paris with you, and that we are listing restaurants…
Darling, there was also sweetness, laughter, sweet complicity, infinite tenderness between us. And this is what I also regret, at my hours, as at others I regret the storm of desire, or the perfect hour near the lake, in the sky of Ermenonville. It is you as a whole that I regret. And if I desire so much to have the strength to sink into my work it is to be able to arrive at spring, free in heart and mind, and melt totally into you. Write every day, if you can. Give me the dates of your shows. And send me your love, Maria darling, I use it every hour. How I kiss you! Until it wears off, precisely, my beautiful face…
Monday 10 p.m. [January 16, 1950]
After writing to you this afternoon, we went for a little walk in a group. The light was beautiful, but I was bored. I love this country in solitude. It was getting cold under the sun. I went home and started working. I redid my preface and wrote about half of it. I thought of you, I was warm at heart. Dinner and then a moment by the fire. No one was talking, so I came alive, I said stupid things, I laughed. Those lonely excesses leave you sad afterwards.
I went back to my room, got into bed, and there you are. The wind picked up outside and blew around the house. But the room is warm. I can imagine you. I love you. I’m caressing you. Close to you, even closer… I love the night, with you, the enclosed spaces, the secluded countryside, the ends of the world, but with you. So I wait, with patience or with rage, I wait for those moments when the world is depopulated, when everything is silent, when there is only us and those black horses, you know. My darling love, wait, my love, come back soon. And until then be strong and patient, armed with all my faithful love. I kiss you endlessly.”
Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, January 16, 1950 [#130]
“If you knew all the love, the joy, the strong hope that you put in me, the absolute devotion that I feel, you would rest in peace in the depths of your heart. No matter how hard it is, no matter how difficult it is, it seems to me that real life is beginning.”— Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, September 9, 1949 [#88]
