She was a hard core feminist,a non-committal homosexual and undisputably,one of the greatest writers that ever lived.
He was a writer too,who also dabbled with philosophy to such penetrating depths that it left his readers gasping.. and a self-claimed womaniser.
But then,they met.
And recognised in each other a little of their own selves.And an extreme compatibility in thought.A journey through the clouds,an intellectual union,sparks flew-that was how it was when they spoke to each other.
But the intellect is never satisfied.
Being the womaniser that he was,he could never commit himself.And she didn’t mind.It is not everyday that you find a companion who can match your intellectual frequencies and push you to greater heights.
He moved around with the pretty ladies in France,while she continued to stack skeletons in her closet.
All through this,they remained scrupulously honest with each other,telling each other every minute detail of their unglamorous affairs and dirty scandals,in letters that only two writers would appreciate.
And yet,they were in love with each other.
All the while making more mistakes than the rest of the population put together.Atleast that’s what it seems.
And this love story appeals to me.It represents an ideal that I might never find.There are no standards here,whatsoever.They were probably people with double standards,for all you know.
Because they frequently lied to each other under the masquerade of honesty.He was a chauvinist,she was a feminist wimp.
But it clicked.
Because their minds met.
That was the story of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean Paul Sartre,two of the greatest writers in France.