I have read Monzie’s7 journal for the years 1938–1940 (Ci-devant) — at first with disgust, then with interest in spite of everything. I now understand better the collapse of France. With every day that passed, it was sliding politically and morally into a stupid and comfortable death agony, without realizing the huge historical stakes.
Monzie’s ridiculously smug sense that he “was right,” amid the most grotesque blindness, knows no bounds.
As I read him I also realized once more that political attitudes make up a complex system from which there is no escape. Tout se tient.8 In 1938 Monzie is pro-Munich. So by 1940 he is inevitably an anti-Semite.
Some ten days ago I read Balzac’s La muse du département. It is a second-rate novel, but it sometimes displays ingenious technique and is a pleasure to read, especially for its behind-the-scenes picture of Parisian literary life.
How much I would once have enjoyed writing a book about Balzac!
Yesterday evening I dined alone with Mouton9 at the Institute. Long discussions in connection with his book about Proust, which he has given me in manuscript.
In the afternoon I listened to the third act of Pelléas.
Wednesday, 7 July
For two days a great tank battle has been raging in the Kursk sector, on a wide front between Orel and Belgorod. I know only the reports based on German sources, and I cannot gauge either the scale or the significance of the battle. The official communiqué claims that when the Russians responded to a local offensive with powerful counterattacks, the German commander threw large reserves into the struggle. We have to wait for more details.
Is this the beginning of a wider German offensive? That’s hard to believe, with the specter of a landing at their rear. Or is it just a limited action, designed to reduce the “Kursk salient” or to probe the Russian forces? Maybe. But even if the original purpose of the operation was limited, no one can say for sure that things will not develop further.
In any event, it is this summer’s first real episode of war.
Sunday, 11 July
The Allies have landed in Sicily. They launched the attack yesterday at dawn. No geographical detail is yet available, but there seems to be major fighting in the southwest portion of the island. The battle of Orel-Belgorod remains violent and unclear. Some German progress.
Tuesday, 13 July
According to yesterday evening’s Italian communiqué, the British and Americans have established Sicilian bridgeheads at Licata, Gela, Pachino, Syracuse, and Augusta, all on the southern or eastern coast.
Thursday, 15 July
From Licata to Augusta, the whole southeast corner of Sicily is in the hands of the British and Americans. A battle for Catania is taking place.
In Russia the offensive seems to have come to a halt, without any notable progress. The communiqué has returned to the vague tone it had before the attack was launched.
Lunch with Mouton — likable, timid, friendly. What I like about him is a kind of expression of humanity, a kind of capacity for emotion, which I can sense beneath his unexpected awkwardness.
I’m nearing the end of Jane. Another three or four days.
Saturday, 17 July
The Russians report that a few days ago they launched a major offensive to the north of Orel. The German commentaries admit this but try to play it down, suggesting that it is merely an attempted diversion to relieve the front at Belgorod. Nevertheless, yesterday evening’s communiqué notes that at Belgorod (where the Germans are attacking) “combat activity has diminished,” whereas at Orel there are “hard defensive struggles” and “hard and fluctuating struggles.” It is the vocabulary of last winter.
Je fais semblant de vivre — mais je ne vis pas. Je traine.1
Mechanical gestures, monotonous habits, some simulated liveliness. Otherwise, a big void that is my life.
I am waiting for the war to end — and then? For what will I then wait?
I have seen a lot of people in the last few days. Maybe no one sees that among all these living people (with their tastes, interests, loves, and relationships), I am an absent person.
On Thursday at Mouton’s, then at Marie Ghiolu’s and in the evening at Mogosoaia, then at Gruber’s and this afternoon at Tina’s — I have seen all kinds of people. Each had something, each is set on something, each pursues something. I walk among them as a shadow. I speak, see, listen, answer, wonder, agree — and beyond all this surface agitation, I always remain alone with my irrevocable fate.
Tuesday, 20 July
In Sicily the invasion is spreading quite rapidly. Agrigento was already taken on Saturday. The deep push to the center of the island has reached Caltagirone, and now Caltanissetta. Infiltration along the coasts is thus paired with breakthroughs in the center. Catania still seems to be resisting, though yesterday evening’s Italian communiqué does not mention anywhere by name.
Rome was bombed yesterday for the first time. The pressure on Italy, both military and psychological, is being continually stepped up.
In Russia the communiqués speak of formidable operations on a thousand-kilometer front. In fact, the only really sensitive spot is still Orel, where the recent German communiqués invariably signal “heavy defensive fighting.”
Yesterday morning I finished translating Pride and Prejudice. I have already delivered the manuscript, though there is still need of serious revision, especially in the passages I dictated. I’ll get an advance of fifty thousand lei, in two installments.
Now, in a great hurry, I have to touch up a melodrama for Sicâ. I fear this will delay my departure for Corcova by a few days, but it will ease my money problems.
Saturday, 24 July
Marsala, Trapani, and Palermo have fallen. The whole Sicilian front has been broken, with resistance continuing only in the northwest corner. Catania is still being firmly defended. Probably Messina will try to hold out as long as possible.
But Sicily seems an affair of minor importance now that the war in Russia is coming to a head. The Russian offensive is spreading to hitherto quiet regions: Izyum, Kuban, Lake Ladoga. The situation remains extremely tense at Orel.
The German communiqués give fantastic figures for the Russian losses — hundreds of tanks and aircraft destroyed every day — but no geographical precision. Instead they talk again of “war of movement,” “mobile fighting,” and “elastic defense”—formulas familiar from last winter.
Once again, events are proving mightier than our reasoning. I didn’t believe in a Soviet summer offensive, and certainly not in one of such proportions.
Nevertheless, I don’t at all feel that the final scene is upon us. Maybe one reason for this is that we are not as anxious as in the past (rightly or wrongly — who knows?).
Monday, 26 July