The impassioned correspondence between the Nobel Prize–winning author and the renowned Spanish-born French actress who appeared in his plays, tracing the extreme highs and lows of their all-consuming love affair—a bestseller in France, translated for the first time into English

Albert. Albert chéri. Write me sweet, passionate things. Tell me you love me and how you love me. Tell me you’ll take me to the sea one day—any sea at all—and that we’ll spend time on the shore and in the water. Tell me you’ll always be with me. Tell me about you, and especially today, talk to me about us.—Maria Casarès to Albert Camus, February 1, 1950

It’s said that the affair began on June 6, 1944, the day the Allied forces landed in Normandy. The twenty-one-year-old Casarès was starring in a production of the thirty-year-old Camus’s play The Misunderstanding—and one thing (an after-party hosted by Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir) led to another.

Though their fling would be cut short by the end of the Occupation—and the return to Paris of Camus’s wife, Francine—the two were destined to meet again: four years later, to the day, they crossed paths by chance on the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

Over the next twelve years, without interruption—until the car wreck of January 4, 1960, that stole Camus’s life—the author and actress would correspond furiously, their words swelling and shimmering and surging like the ocean.

Ah! It’s so hard to leave you, your dear face will again fade into the night, but I’ll find you once more in this ocean you love, at the time of evening when the sky takes on the color of your eyes.—Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, June 1, 1949

Across 865 letters of immense and exquisite emotion, they cry and laugh and bicker and beg, make and break promises, talk Stendhal and Proust and Orwell, French theater, sickness, death, writer’s block, and, most of all, they pine—leaving behind a record of one of the great love stories of the twentieth century.

“The back and forth between them is uniquely tender, intelligent, grown-up, and, in the end, tragic. People will be reading these letters as long as love exists.”—Adam Gopnik, author of Paris to the Moon and The King in the Window