The publisher Jean-Jacques Pauvert died Saturday at the age of 88. He was the first, in 1947, dared to publish in Sade, making the time his name and address on the covers of books. He was just 21 years old, and began a career that will be tumultuous. Pauvert also publish erotic novel “Story of O”.
The Tripod, the publisher of “Sade living” in Pauvert, reissued last year honors this Sunday that “great editor.” “Mocking censorship and books of etiquette, he revolutionized the publishing world through the force of his choices, his fidelity to the texts he loved and the graphic beauty of his books” writes The Tripod, which publishes in its press a text by Jean-Jacques Pauvert from 1947.
“At 20, Jean-Jacques Pauvert wrote a brief manifesto on what he wanted to live. He added a few months after ironic comments on the naivety of youth and published the whole wafer form. We reproduce the essence of these two texts below, testifying that there has been faithful to the end. “
” Open a refuge to singular minds ”
This is what happened. We fought for freedom of expression, and then when we had it, we did not take advantage. It does not matter. This is an oversight. Some said they had just forgot about. It’s impossible. Tons of flood printed every month, every week, the world of letters. If there was not an ounce of thought in there, we would know. This is not the case. These people are full of intelligence. They are overflowing. The world of letters sweltering intelligence. It is in the hands of teachers. The time has come when, far from contradicting stupidity, it is contradicting intelligence. It was Jean Cocteau who said. And that’s correct. Teachers have lots of ideas. But literature is done with words. That is why, despite appearances, it is so rarely discussed in literature, now in the world of French letters. There is a gap there. If I say that there is a gap, obviously I think we’ll fill it. Repair and forgetting that I mentioned. Because we take care of bad art when you do not mind free.
Do not believe that freedom of spirit implies indifference. We have convictions. One anyway. We think it is not necessary to be “committed” to care for art. Let us be clear. We do not mean that the artist should not be engaged. We say that our commitment is the same to us and did not come into play when we consider the work. Of course, politics is important. But we are dealing with art. It has nothing to do, obviously.
We did not want to get involved. We do not have the spirit of sacrifice. We do not have a sense of duty. We have no respect for the dead. We want to live. Is it so difficult? The world will soon be in the hands of the secret police and directors of conscience. Everything will be engaged. All serve. But we? We do not want useless. We do not want ourselves to be used. A rain of ashes slowly buried under the earth boredom and stress. The men, one by one, join their assignment in herds .We we are innocent of the village. We play with the girls, the sun or literature. With our life too, on occasion. We will do anything rather than taking the large machines used at all. It is dangerous to remove them from the sun to the innocent.
You believed that men were no longer right to choose their side of the barricade and again. You thought everything was in place and could begin. Looking good. Do not you feel that there are still people whose happiness is not in bondage. For whom poetry is not yet a weapon. For that wonderful never left the earth. The days of our lives, we feel that pass. Hour by hour. Forever. The days of our lives will not serve you. Have you really thought it was all over? Did you believe you can really count on any
This life threatened, this life without issue, we are still a few to feel its price. Life is too precious to be used.
I apologize. I went astray. But it never hurts to say what we think. And do not think, on this, I come to define the trend of a team I have deeply shocked many of my classmates. They will tell you a few pages later. If I have a conviction, not to impose it. At a time when both sides fight rally behind their walls, I wanted to welcome deserters minds. I wanted to welcome the freed spirits. Are there still newspapers without instructions? Can we still find artists without hatred and without submission? Solitary designers, poets without a party? He had to give them refuge somewhere.
Open an asylum to singular minds.
I, in twenty years , I will have forty. I like to go through what I think. that led me to have principles. Of course, God does not exist. Obviously, nothing has reason to be. So it is necessary that I take it all in hand. I choose to live. My name is Jean-Jacques Pauvert. I’ll build my life on my ideas. The taste of elegance, civility, art. On respect for the given word. On contempt for things too numerous for me to say. And I print this so that when I have forty years, if I did not keep it there around me to laugh a lot of classmates who will not be worth me.
Printed in February 1947 on the printing presses Van Daele in Paris.