One evening in 1939 Alberto Giacometti found himself lingering late at the Café de Flore in Paris. Most of the other customers had gone, but at the adjoining table sat a man alone. Presently he leaned toward Alberto and said, “Pardon me, but I’ve often seen you here, and I think we’re the sort of people who understand each other. I happen to have no money on me. Would you mind paying for my drink?” That was the kind of request Alberto could never have refused. He promptly paid for the stranger’s drink. A conversation ensued, and it did seem that the two men were the sort of people who understood each other. Twenty-five years later it would be worth recalling that their friendship had begun with such an optimistic assumption. The man who made it was Jean-Paul Sartre.

Alberto had certainly heard of him, and he of Alberto. The sculptor and the writer would inevitably have met sooner or later, as they had several friends in common, and once they had met it was inevitable that they should be attracted to each other. Exuberant, brilliant, and outgoing, both men relished the unpredictable give and take of self-discovery at levels which—often—only they could fathom.

Four years younger than Giacometti, Sartre was short and plain, if not ugly, with heavy glasses and a nearly sightless right eye, which had the unfortunate effect of making it seem that he avoided giving you a straight look. The only child of