I’ve had three fantastic days here. Sorokine has taken me gallivanting about everywhere: to the seaside; to the cemetery, which is extraordinary; into the hills; to Pasadena, etc. I gave lectures at Los Angeles on Tuesday and at Pasadena on Wednesday. We’d leave at about 10 and drive round till the lecture at about 3. Then, in the evening at 6, we’d meet Moffat over a scotch-and-soda in the prettiest bars. The first evening they took me to the Mexican quarter, which is very, very agreeable, and we ate in a restaurant so pretty it would have reduced the Kosakiewitch sisters to tears. The band, the cabaret, the cuisine and the drinks were all Mexican. Afterwards we went to a very pretty nightclub, with good jazz. On the second day we went to a kind of Los Angeles Montparnasse, at the bottom of a canyon beside the sea. There was a French cafè of the artistic kind with French cuisine, also very agreeable. We made a trip to Venice, to the Luna Park which Sorokine talked about in T.M., and went on to the most terrifying ‘scenic railway’ of my life. Moffat was marvellous — with his abstract despair and his puritanical disapproval — as we plunged into abysses. Some day I’ll try and find the time to tell you about Sorokine and him. They really couldn’t love each other more intensely, and they’re aggreeable together. I have a lot, really a lot, of affection for Moffat.
Yesterday was cinema day. In the morning I went to the hairdresser’s and visited the village of Westwood, near where we’re living — it’s close to Beverly Hills. The village itself is very pretty. We went and picked up Moffat at the studio. Stevens invited us to lunch at Lucy’s, in between the three by Hollywood studios — it’s the big restaurant of the stars — and the clientele was indeed very diverting and the food magnificent. After that, we visited the studios and watched bits of scenes being filmed. I had my photo taken between two magnificent, half-naked ‘glamour girls’, each holding one of my hands — I’ll send you the photo — you’d have had to laugh, and Bost too. After that, the consul had arranged a tea party at Annabella’s — she’d had to sit through my lecture on Tuesday, poor thing. What was very convenient was the fact that the consul’s a friend of Moffat’s — he’s the one who has arranged lectures for Sarbakhane, whom he introduces everywhere as my adoptive daughter — so people always ask us all together. Annabella was charming, she gave me this fountain-pen and we exchanged kisses. J. P. Aumont was there,435 looking like a butcher’s boy. It wasn’t very enjoyable, but we stayed only for an hour. Afterwards, a sumptuous Chinese dinner in the smartest restaurant in Los Angeles — truly the most beautiful setting I’ve ever been in — a kind of aquarium or Haitian conservatory with the most marvellously pretty and astonishing lights and decor. The consul was host. I drank a monstrous zombie436 and ate delicious things. But the discussion about Genet’s Thiefs Journal turned sour. We parted with effusive cordiality, but I detest the fellow and he returns my sentiments. After we left him, Moffat took us to the very top of a hill from which you can see all Los Angeles at your feet. An immensity of twinkling lights and silence. It was very mild, and we stayed for quite a while smoking cigarettes and gazing. We were very happy. We went to bed at 2 in the morning. But I rose at 8 and spent two hours writing to you while they still slept. Sorokine is bustling about, since we’re leaving for Ojaj where she has her daughter staying, in the mountains between Los Angeles and San Francisco. After that to San Francisco, returning via Reno and Death Valley. Sor. drives very decently. On Wednesday 12th, Chaplin is presenting his film on Landru437 and there’ll be a party and everything — I’m terribly pleased because we’ll just have got back. Stevens is also going to show me The Oxbow Incident438 and other films, and perhaps there’ll be a jazz jam-session. And I have to work with Moffat too on Immortal Man’. As you see, I’m full of fine plans.
I received Host’s letter. It gave me a grat deal of pleasure, but he should write to me more often. I’d like him to have news of me, if you’re far away. You might perhaps send him this letter? At all events, don’t lose my letters, I beg of you — they’ll be my only memory of here.
Goodbye, my love. I’m hoping for one or two letters more here. I’m happy when I have your letters and feel myself not forgotten. I’d like to live in America with you for a good long while. I live with you all the time, and kiss you with all my might.
Your charming Beaver
(Address as letter 26 January 1947)
[San Francisco]
Tuesday 4 March [1947]
Most dear little being
Where are you? I’m beginning to feel really far away from you, and to feel great yearnings of desire to see you again. Write to me now c/o the Gerassis, 215 E. 57th — I’ll be there in a month. If it weren’t for this separation that I’m beginning to experience with some distress (especially at night), I’d be the most shamefully blissful of Beavers. Here I am now in San Francisco. It doesn’t have the mystery and depths of N.Y. or Chicago, but
I don’t know any city more charming. I know you roamed about — and even got a bit lost — among these hills, and that’s a little concrete link with you. My love, after writing to you on Friday morning Sarbakhane and I went and made lots of little purchases in the village of Westwood, then valiantly took to the road in her little grey car. It was a mountain road, with views over the sea — very, very pretty. We stopped on the way at one of those charming roadside inns (one of them had a flesh-and-blood elephant in lieu of a sign), had lunch, and arrived at about 4.30 at Ojaj, a dreadful little village in a fantastic valley of orange trees in the middle of the mountains. Did you know there are little stoves set up between the rows of orange trees, and they’re lit on really frosty nights to stop the buds from freezing? They’re amazing to see. We first went for a long car drive all round the area, with views over the valley and everything. Then we went and picked up Soroki-ne’s daughter, who’s being wet-nursed by a bloated monster of obesity, and took her with us to the house of Moffat’s mother Iris. It’s 4 miles from the village, a house to make the two Kosakiewitch sisters cry their hearts out, with the landscape, colours and flowers of an earthly paradise, and inside the most marvellous Mexican and Indian objects. We were alone there, and we wandered about and chatted and played with the child, who appeals to me neither more nor less than any other child of that age — six months — i.e. not at all. Then Moffat turned up, with Iris and a man friend. She resembles a thin, old, American version of Wanda. In the valley she has a little theatre, where she stages plays by Shakespeare and by herself, with amateur actors living in the vicinity who fill the house like parasites from dawn till 2 in the morning. She’s a fantastic bohemian. We dined in haphazard fashion off a few salmon steaks that Sor. had bought and grilled, then drank whisky and listened to some very fine records, about which Sorokine wants to write a little article for T.M.: they’re old mediaeval English songs taken over by the Americans a long while back — it was a nice evening. They put the little girl to sleep in my room, which didn’t bother me except that in the morning she was dreadfully smelly. In the morning, Iris’s room was full of men arguing and the garden full of actors gesticulating as they learned their parts. Everyone ate what they could — luckily Sor. had brought some eggs — and I wrote some letters and we went for a bit of a walk. And at about 1.30 we set off amid general encouragements for San Francisco, in the big red car that Moffat was lending us. Sor. doesn’t drive badly, just over-cautiously — nothing crazy about her anyway. We followed mountain and coast roads, ate hamburgers in a dreadful village, and as evening was falling — at about 6 — arrived at a very pleasant little out-of-the-way place on the edge of a creek. We dined in a sea-food restaurant beside the sea, with tables lit by multicoloured candles — as is the way here — then went to bed in one of the little cabins of a motel. It couldn’t have been more poetic. I read for an hour beside Sorokine, who was already sleeping, and by 9 I was asleep too.
On Sunday we were on the road by 7.30. A fantastic corniche road, totally wild. We did about 300 miles, or 450 km., during the day. We had breakfast in an isolated seaside inn, and lunch in a ve
ry pretty town, Monterey, do you know it? It dates from Mexican times, before the Gold Rush, and there are old, studiedly elegant houses that once sheltered famous (in the locality) brigands or governors. There’s above all a fishing-port, very bustling and agreeable, where we had lunch on a boat in the open air. I felt as happy as a queen. I was very keen too to arrive at San Francisco by about 5.30 in the afternoon. But it was strange, because we didn’t know exactly where the city was, and Sor. was afraid of driving in town with all those terrifying ups and downs. We arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge, and then all of a sudden we did catch sight of the city and the bay — how beautiful it is! — but we were by then on our way and could no longer retrace our steps. Eventually, though, we were helped to return and easily found a hotel, just near Market Street — i.e. right in the centre. That very evening we went up to the Top Mark on Hopkins. They didn’t want to let Sorokine in, because they took her for a minor, but they did let her in all the same and we had drinks and looked. After that we had dinner at a good restaurant with quite agreeable music. Then a stupid film in which Bette Davis plays two twins.
Yesterday I saw San Francisco from one end to the other. In the morning on foot: to Chinatown; Telegraph Hill, with its charming little houses and magnificent view; and Fisherman’s Wharf, where we had lunch in a pretty harbour restaurant looking out over all the little boats. Then we went for a big tour round by car, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge and following the coast — it’s fantastically beautiful. Then we wandered on foot round Down Town, and went to the cinema to see The Killers,439 based on the story of Hemingway — it’s enjoyable. But after it there was a silly film which worried me a bit in connection with The Chips Are Down:440 once again dead people coming back to earth, and there’s exactly your gimmick — they sit in the laps of people who don’t realize it. Sor. says she has seen that gimmick 10 times. After this we had a drink in a bar, ate a snack at a lunch-counter, and went home.
I’ve just got up. I have a lecture at Mills this afternoon and another on Thursday at Berkeley, so I’m staying here for another three days, which I’m very glad of. I’ll be going back to L.A. by way of Reno, a big national park, and Death Valley. I’ll tell you all about it later. Sorokine’s terribly nice. She says something has died in her, and that gives her an angelic character. It’s funny seeing her drive, but she manages; except that here she engages first gear whenever she goes down a hill, so that the engine acts as a brake and we go down like a funeral amid cars plunging headlong into the void.
Goodbye, my love. I think you too have seen and loved these things, so I feel less separated from you. Write to me, think about me, don’t forget me.
I kiss you with all my might.
Your Beaver
Tell Bost I’m still thinking about him too and wish he’d write.
[Lone Pine, California]
Sunday 9 March [1947]
My dear love
I’m quite astounded when I think that I’ve been here for six weeks already, yet not for one minute have I so far felt that slight nausea which, even together, we experience at the end of a journey. On the contrary, the more time goes by, the more I feel myself taking root — to the point where I can hardly imagine really leaving America. It seems to be part of my life, my culture and my world. I’m attached to it as though to a kind of motherland, in spite of all the horror and above all disappointment it causes me on the political side. I know you felt exactly this mixture of affection and anger.
My journey through California is as wonderful as my stay in New York was. The agreeable thing is that I have a home in Los Angeles. Though I stayed there for only three days and shan’t be staying any longer, it’s a base. And then I have all of New York as a home, with friends and plans awaiting me, so that I feel myself drifting across America not as a Frenchwoman but as an inhabitant of New York.
[...]
At 5 we arrived at Lone Pine, which is an out-of-the-way little place at the entrance to Death Valley, which you’ve seen in Greed.441 We have an appointment here at midday with Moffat and Stevens — his boss, whom I told you about, who’s the director of Gunga Din and interested in my ‘Immortal Man’. He’s going to take us to Death Valley. It was delightful having a long peaceful evening yesterday. We stayed reading on or in our beds from 6 till 11, with just a quick visit to the cafèteria opposite. I read a big Thomas Wolfe, which I found interesting, and an odd book that Miller regards as a work of genius, by a certain Patchen442 — I’m not yet sure quite what to think of it. But I want to read at least twenty books in these last two months (I have a list of about 50) and bring back a good harvest for the T.M.. It makes a very important additional bond to know the literature properly of the country you’re in. This morning’s a big free morning. It’s 9 o’clock, I’ve had breakfast, and they’re not arriving till noon. I’m going to do my correspondence and read. Moffat said on the phone that there was a lot of mail for me in Los Angeles and I’m waiting for him impatiently, since perhaps there’ll be a letter from you.
[...]
My love, I’ve had three letters from you and a telegram. I’m wiring at once. I’m terribly unhappy that you’re no longer getting my letters. I’ve read your letters and feel really upset not to be with you. Everything suddenly strikes me as a bit tragic, and you so far away with that trip to Italy. My love, I’ve written long letters twice weekly, thought about you all the time, and been so happy getting your letters. You’ve written so nicely. I love you, my little one. This separation is suddenly painful to me — two months to go. I know I’ll find you just the same, all tender and warm — and so very close to me. I haven’t left you either. Cable me your address if necessary. Meanwhile, I’ll write c/o your mother and she should forward everything. My love, I don’t want to leave you — here I am, all upset. I’ll write again from Los Angeles. I love you. You’re my life.
Your charming Beaver
[Los Angeles]
Thursday 13 March [1947]
My love
Here I am, on my own for the afternoon, in the Moffats’ pretty house. I have cigarettes and martinis, books and a magnificent sky. I’ve lain down on the terrace, I can see the sea and I can see the eucalyptus trees — here I am like a real queen. Just one thing saddens me, which is that I no longer quite know where you are — perhaps already on the train to Italy — and you no longer quite know where I am. Have you finally received my letters and telegram? Those signs from you — so close — overwhelmed me. Your last letter was only 4 days old. It’s so strange for me to be as happy and carefree as this for weeks on end, and to know nevertheless that my life is not in my own hands but back there in Paris, and that I depend entirely upon you. It would be almost painful if I didn’t have such a strong feeling, my dear love, that we are as one, and that at the beginning of May you’ll be just as I left you. And I’m so accustomed here to a life entirely on the surface — a life of pure pleasure and indifference — that it shook me to rediscover my love for you in all its intensity; rather as though I’d started thinking, really thinking, about death in the middle of a pleasure outing. And what I felt last Sunday has still not dissipated.
[...]
This journey by car has really been marvellous. I adore all the ‘service stations’ and ‘drug stores’, the records, the brief halts, the villages. And the landscapes of cactus and boulders and snowy mountains and desert are magnificently lavish. It breaks your heart not to be able to like as you’d wish the people inhabiting this beautiful stretch of the planet. But only the day before yesterday Truman was proposing his anti-communist crusade, sending planes to Greece, etc.443 You feel more and more that you’re living under fascism in this country — it’s scary. I less and less feel any hope for this country. Well, since yesterday, I’m part of a family again. It’s really agreeable. Sorokine and I did the shopping — in those wonderful grocery-shops they have here444 — then prepared blinis and pineapple. When Moffat came back from the studio, we spent a long while with him drinking cocktails and eating w
hile we discussed ‘Immortal Man’, on which he’s working away relentlessly — and very well. I must tell you all about him, and about them both together. He’s very interesting, as an American from England: anti-American yet so very American in certain ways. We get on amazingly well — I enjoy his company a lot and he enjoys mine. We went to a nightclub full of queers dressed up as women, and to a very nice Hungarian nightclub. But everything closes at midnight in Hollywood, and it’s really dead. After Las Vegas and its dissolute pleasures, we were a bit disappointed. This morning I gave a lecture in English at the University — big success! I’m overjoyed. I can give lectures in English, and that will bring me in some money. It will also allow me to come back here very easily. I want to come back to America, and I want to come back with you, my love. I’ve just been to the village with Sorokine to have my hair done, then I came home while she went off to town till this evening. Moffat’s working at his studio. I’m alone and comfortable. I like the way people leave their houses open here, and the way delivery vans drive right into the garden, and how everything’s easy and relaxed. The evenings are marvellously mild. I’m staying another two days, then on Sunday I’m leaving with Sor. by bus for the Grand Canyon, Sante Fe, Houston and New Orleans, where I have lectures. Write now for 27 March — if there’s still time — c/o Marcel Morand, head of the Romance Languages Dept., Rice Institute, Houston, Texas. Otherwise c/o the Gerassis, 215 E. 57th, for 5 April. My love, I’d like so many letters! I’ll still write to your flat. Keep these letters for me, please. I’d like Bost to have them too, and know that all this time I’m thinking tenderly about him. My love, do whatever you think best, but above all feel me right there with you. I kiss you with all my love.
Letters to Sartre Page 58
