ary. But this is a thesis which, per–
sonally, I shall always reject. Al–
low me to set up against it the
traditional point of view of what
has been hitherto called the left:
all executioners are of the same
family.
V.
W hat can the artist do in the
world of today?
He is not asked either to write
about cooperatives or, conversely,
to lull to sleep in himself the suf–
ferings endured by others through–
out history. And since you have
asked me to speak personally, I
am going to do so as simply as I
can. Considered as artists, we per–
haps have no need to interfere in
the affairs of the world. But con–
sidered as men, yes. The miner
who is exploited or shot down, the
slaves in the camps, those in the
colonies, the legions of persecuted
throughout the world-they need
all those who can speak to relay
their silence and to keep in touch
with them. I have not written, day
after day, fighting articles and
texts, I have not taken part in the
common struggles because I de–
sire the world to be covered with
Greek statues and masterpieces.
The man who has such a desire
does exist in me. Except that he
has something better to do in try–
ing to instill life into the creatures
of his imagination. But from my
first articles to my latest book I
have written so much, and per–
haps too much, only because I can–
not keep from being drawn to–
ward the everyday, toward those,
431
whoever they may be, who are
humiliated and debased. They
need to hope, and if all keep si–
lent or if they are given a choice
between two kinds of humiliation,
they will be forever deprived of
hope and we with them. It seems
to me impossible to endure that
idea nor can he who cannot en–
dure it lie down to sleep in his
tower. Not through virtue, as you
see, but through a sort of almost
organic intolerance, which you
feel or do not feel. Indeed, I see
many who fail to feel it, but I
cannot envy their sleep.
This does not mean, however,
that we must sacrifice our artist's
nature to some social preaching or
other. I have said elsewhere why
the artist was more than ever ne–
cessary. But if we intervene as
men, that experience wiIl have an
effect upon our language. And if
we are not artists in our language
first of all, what sort of artists
are we? Even if, militants in our
lives, we speak in our works of
deserts and of selfish love, the
mere fact that our lives are mili–
tant causes a special tone of voice
to people with men that desert and
that love. I shall certainly not
choose the moment when we are
beginning to leave nihilism behind
to stupidly deny the values of cre–
ation in favor of the values of hu–
manity, or vice versa. In my mind
neither one is ever separated from
the other and I measure the great–
ness of an artist (Moliere, Tolstoy,
Melville) by the balance he man–
aged to maintain between the two.
