Louis ARAGON (1897-1982). L.A.S. "L.", Monday... Lot 308

Louis ARAGON (1897-1982). L.A.S. "L.", Monday evening December 4 [1939], to Elsa Triolet; 4pages in-4. Long, loving letter from Aragon, a soldier, to Elsa. At night, by an open fire, Aragon writes to Elsa... "Oh I'd still like to have you against me, already I miss you terribly, already your little smile is lost, I can't hear you anymore, I can't say Monku to you anymore, I can't touch the little nude anymore. My beloved, my beloved, when will we be together again? And yet I must tell you that I have taken leave of you, close to you, against you, from you, a great, enormous supply of courage. I'm much better, physically and morally, than when I arrived in Paris the other day. As you say, I'm almost normal"... He asks for various items... "The atmosphere here is better than before I left. Quite relaxed. I'm just talking about the kitchen staff and the closest officers. We were congratulated by the general for our work, he distributed money to the best workers etc." There are rumors of departure... Aragon recounts daily life, playing dominoes and chatting after dinner... He talks about the socks his mother sent him... "The manuscript of the last part of the novel [Les voyageurs de l'impériale] lies before me, on my right, on my table, and tomorrow I'm going to get down to work. You're either a writer or you're not, aren't you? He writes to Paulhan and his mother... His letter is "interminable"... "I continue to be like this with you for a while longer. You say, I can hear you now, that I talk to you more when I'm not with you. Don't make fun of me, my wicked beloved, of me and my great worries. You know very well that 9 out of 10 of my worries are about you. Everything revolves around you in this head and heart of yours. Everything in the world, and everything in heaven. Which reminds me, I've promised you three poems. You see what I've got to do! [...] I'm going to try and fall asleep looking for new and extraordinary rhymes like tales by Edgar Allan Poe. Somewhere, Paul Valéry said: You can fall asleep on any word... I'll see if he's right. But I do know that if the word was Monku, I could never, ever fall asleep on my own. My love that I haven't kissed enough, my love that I miss so much, my love that worries me, my little one who may be hurting tonight... [...] I love you, I love you, and I start counting the days and nights again, listening to the noises in the shadows, thinking of rue de la Sourdière, of everything around you, and gnawing at myself. Oh, my love, quickly, quickly I'll have you in my arms"...