It was, in fact, better that I didn’t write you last night. What could I say?
What else can I keep repeating? The love I have for you is never-ending. If I could stop thinking about it, and if it were possible for certain of your words to reach me when I’m not thinking about it, then my heart wouldn’t be torn apart as I feel it is now. To behave well or badly, and be worthy of whom? Of course. But during all the times when you were absent from my life, and those times were long, I never ceased comparing what I did to how you would judge me, or to the image of myself you gave me. I know, however, that when you talk that way, it is despair speaking. But I also know that I am the cause of that despair and that is what I cannot heal. As for the rest, I don’t want to write about it here.
The weather is beautiful, wonderfully beautiful. What a shame to feel such an ill beast under such light. I wait, I do nothing. I’m waiting for Thursday, of course. Even amid heartbreaks and tears your presence fills the world for me. When you’re gone, it’s the void, terrible vertigo. My darling girl, my love, you are the one I’m waiting for and will always wait for. Is there no joy for you, no peace in this exhausting life that is ours? On Thursday evening, won’t Dora feel a little better when you think of me, so close, in the same city, waiting for you? The days are endless, I know, I know that only too well. But other days and other nights float by like the wind. Ah! I would have liked to write you a real letter, one that would support you, containing both unhappiness and happiness. At least let me tell you again that I love you. I won’t write anymore or speak. When I look at you in silence, it isn’t peacefulness, or withdrawing into another universe, it’s with the passionate, despairing love that fills me. All I know how to do is keep repeating myself. Be patient with me, I’ll find my strength again and give life to you again I’ll get there. Three days would be better. Welcome me back, give yourself to me. I don’t need your help—no one can help me to pull through anymore, no one but myself, and I’ll do it. But I at least need to believe that I’m not the cause of your unhappiness, and just your unhappiness. I hold you close, my dear, dear love, with all my tenderness, passionately.
A.
9 p.m. Am I so ill-fated that I have to renounce making the only person I love with all my being happy! Tell me, tell me I’m not, my irreplaceable love! Tell me that I still, sometimes, bring you true joy!
Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Mon Cher Amour, May 14, 1950 [#303]
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