Perhaps there are three, or better yet, four creative and protective dispositions that highlight the life of Roger Martin du Gard (1881-1958): being a constant reader of War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy; being championed by Albert Camus when critics belittled him after winning the Nobel Prize in 1937; being an archivist-paleographer—this sounds odd; and being a friend of André Gide. Everything else, from having been a soldier in World War I to addressing the Dreyfus Affair or writing the Thibault saga, rests on these vital insistences.
A literary friendship, which does not need to be cemented in letters or forewords—as Ortega y Gasset claimed—must be witnessed in the imaginative fragmentation of diaries or notes. A 32-year-old Du Gard and a 44-year-old Gide began their friendship through political proximity. Although du Gard already admired The Immoralist, their literary bond solidified over time. The publication of Jean Barois earned the younger man the friendship of the charismatic and renowned Gide.
With a translation by Armando Pinto and edited by Pablo de Cuba Soria, Casa Vacía Press reaffirms its love for books by publishing Notes on André Gide (2025) by Roger Martin du Gard. This kindred and surprising volume follows the reissue of Cyril Connolly as a Book Collector by Anthony Hobson. Casa Vacía grounds us: it reminds us of the pretentiousness of our bibliophilic aspirations. We cannot read everything, nor even open many books. Consulting is a privilege. But Notes on André Gide can and must be read in its entirety.
These reflections on Gide, Nobel Laureate in Literature in 1947, transcend the epochal. Du Gard paints a varied group portrait before arriving at his first encounter with Gide, in a meticulous, vivid, and cinematic manner. Like Gide, he has experienced a movie theater. His testimony resembles the notes of a screenplay:
And suddenly, he straightens up, rests an elbow on his knee, his chin on his limply folded hand, and begins to speak profusely. His voice breaks free, flows; admirably toned, warm, low and grave, confidential at will, cajoling, whispering, with nuanced modulations, and, at times, a sudden shout when he utters a rare adjective, some chosen term, laden with meaning: he seems to triumphantly cast the word into the air so that it may unfold its resonance, as one raises a tuning fork to allow maximum vibration. I don’t know what to think, much less what to say. In substance and form, all these ideas he develops and refines in this burst of improvisation are entirely new to me. Their brilliance dazzles me. Never, in conversation, has anyone given me this impression of natural strength, of genius…
Du Gard manages to be as precise as Gide. His notes, grounded in anecdotes, offer literary reflections and advice on creation. Gide is cited alongside Montaigne, Poe, Stendhal, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Ibsen, Wilde, Copeau, Heredia… But du Gard is not blinded by friendship. His sincerity allows him to critique what Gide shows him before publication: “A long and frank discussion follows. I urge him to revise some passages, pointing out, through the tone of his narrative, the persistence of a kind of implied disapproval, very conventional, likely of Protestant origin.” Gide reflects and responds: “Forgive me for falling silent like that… But everything we’ve just discussed is so important, dear friend! I can already see what needs to change… I can’t think of anything else!”
Later, Gide explains their differing aesthetics regarding the novel: “You deprive yourself of precious resources!… Think of Rembrandt, his touches of light, then the secret depth of his shadows. There is a subtle science of illuminations; varying them infinitely is an art.”
Their psychologies do not clash abruptly. The younger du Gard, recognizing Gide’s remarkable modesty, “stains.” Despite the eccentricities of the “fluid, elusive, and ever-fleeting” Gide, they listen to each other, make concessions, and indulge without distinction. “I don’t convince him of everything; however, my sincerity is never useless to him: when it doesn’t persuade him, it at least helps him delve deliberately into his reasoning.” They have learned to manage who holds the baton on any given day: “He will sit back down to finally express what he has to say: he came only for that!” Du Gard confesses. His remarks on Cuverville, the train, or Gide’s marriage enliven the restraint of some pages, while his depiction of Gide’s mansion interiors sounds like an art critique.
The notes leap from December 1924 to June 1926. Were they lost, torn out by du Gard, or did he simply take a break from Gide in 1925? That year, Gide demanded better conditions for criminals and wrote The Counterfeiters. Other chronological gaps occur until the notes stabilize between 1931 and 1934, continuing in 1937-1938, 1943, 1945, 1947-1949, up to a day after Gide’s death on February 19, 1951. Du Gard would die seven years later. Perhaps the finest pages are in 1937, when Du Gard receives the Nobel and interest in Gide wanes. Du Gard reproaches Gide for hiding opinions behind a “curtain of gravity”: “For Gide, it’s merely a way to step out of the game, without offending anyone or risking banalities.” Yet he defends him as a writer:
Unable, from a distance, to fairly distinguish between what is complacency, coquetry, and what is truthful, it is to be feared that future literary historians will give credence to the resentful testimonies of those who did not recognize Gide or slandered him; and reject wholesale the image of himself he proposed, replacing it with a different, legendary, and likely less accurate representation.
From publisher Gaston Gallimard to playwright and essayist Maurice Maeterlinck, Notes on André Gideinterweaves opinions and feelings. It feels like attending a conversation among friends in a room with open doors. It is not a mere relay of egos or places. As the discussion unfolds, one could step out for a walk. Companionship prevails, and the silences, unable to dominate, seem to consent to an off-screen voice evoking past events that feel recent. These are superimposed, complementary, and vivifying images. With barely a hundred pages, the book reads like a sprawling novel. It’s as if Gide and du Gard have always been in our lives. An intellectual adventure of recognition. How could we not have joined this journey sooner?
