Mercy

constantly watched, every gesture we made was a commitm ent. ” This is moral eloquence, in the mouth o f a man. This

applies to the situation o f women. This is a beautiful truth,

beautifully expressed. Every just thought is a real conquest,

for women under the rule o f men. They don’t know how hard

it is to be kind. Our oppressor puts his version o f us

everywhere, on walls, in the papers, on the movie screens.

Like a poison gas, it seeps in. Every word we utter is a

declaration o f our rights. Every gesture is a commitment. I

make gestures. I experience this subtle freedom, this freedom

based on nuance, a freedom grotesquely negated by a vulgar,

reckless shout, however sincere. He didn’t know that the Je w s

were being exterminated, perhaps, not then. O f course, yes,

he did know that they had been deported from France. Yes.

And when he published these words much later, in 1949, he

did know, but one must be true to one’s original insights,

one’s true experiences, the glimpses one has o f freedom. There

is a certain pride one takes in seeing something so fine, so

subtle, and saying it so well— and, o f course, one cannot

endlessly revise backwards. His point about freedom is

elegant. He too suffered during the war. It is not a cheap point.

And it is true that for us too every w ord is a declaration o f

rights, every gesture a commitment. This is beautifully put,

strongly put. As a wom an o f letters, I fight for m y kind, for

women, for freedom. The brazen scream distracts. The wild

harridans are not persuasive. I write out Sartre’s passage with

appreciation and excitement. The analogy to the condition o f

wom en is dramatic and at the same time nuanced. I w ill not

shout. This is not the ovens. We are not the Jew s, or, to be

precise, the Je w s in certain parts o f Europe at a certain time.

We are not being pushed into the ovens, dragged in, cajoled in,

seduced in, threatened in. It is not us in the ovens. Such

hyperbole helps no one. I like the w ay Sartre puts it, though

the irony seems unintended: “ We were never as free as under

the German O ccupation. ” Actually, I do know that his

meaning is straightforward and completely sincere— there is

no irony. This embarrasses me, perhaps because I am a captive

o f m y time. We are cursed with hindsight. We need irony

because we are in fact incapable o f simple sincerity. “ We were

never as free as under the German O ccupation. ” It gives the

right significance to the gesture, something Brecht never

managed incidentally. I like the sophistication, the unexpected

meaning. This is what a writer must do: use w ords in subtle,

unexpected w ays to create intellectual surprise, real delight. I

love the pedagogy o f the analogy. There is a mutability o f