Superb autograph manuscript by Jean-Paul Sartre, unsigned, in French, penned in black ink on both sides of an 8.25 x 10.5 sheet of graphing paper, no date. Entitled “The journey, Monte Cassino and the Marocchinate, Departure,” the manuscript contains Sartre's reflection on Monte Cassino, an Italian battleground during World War II and the site of Marocchinate, a term applied to the mass rape and killings after the Battle of Monte Cassino (translated):
“Company. Dry and dilapidated cities, white dust everywhere; wide streets crossing each other at right angles. Capone, which is not the real one, and St Marie, which is the real Capone…all the same…these terrible towns which you would say were built to be passed through at top speed. Fine width of the street. But you need to stay in the houses. The inhabitants stay there like residues of speed, in a kind of special discomfort because their town is holed. The lorries and heavy goods vehicles pass through. The houses are in danger of being blown away. Houses which look as though they are made of chalk. Everywhere the cloudy pink of salmon trout. Speed makes them flake more than the sun. Under this excessively delicate, sickly pink appear scars of glaring, dazzling white. Balconies everywhere. For the first time since the plane picked me up in Rome I see houses which are not palaces. Barracks…Their street has been stolen. They are not a sweet piece of town but the incessant passing of the main road. The children play in the dust. It is the universal, the collective. The sun beats down between enormous clouds. We run before a storm. Humble misery in a fleeting world. The coach speeds through an orchard, with the sea at the end. Here is Naples, from above. We go down the winding streets like those at Capone. Houses yellow or pink like corpses…washing on the balcony, noisy kids. A hearse gallops by, more extravagant than a cart…The horse looks like a prostitute. Between the twisted black wood columns, the coffin is visible through four windows, under flowers. On the four sides silver lanterns swing to and fro. On the rear running board an undertakers man is doing balancing tricks. Here the tourist…It is good to be…in Naples for death. For a galloping death followed by a trusty carriage. Death seems fantastic, absurd and quick and then good night. In Naples death is everywhere, life too. There is no difference.” In fine condition, with an unobtrusive tear to the right edge.
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