Imaginary interview with Vercors
by Charactorium · Vercors (1902 — 1991) · Literature · 5 min read
Two 12-year-old students visit an old publishing house during their school trip. In a small office cluttered with books, a white-haired man awaits them, a pencil behind his ear. It's Vercors. He smiles at them and invites them to sit close by.
—What were your mornings like in Paris during the war?
You know, my child, my mornings were very quiet. I used to get up before 7 o'clock, in my little apartment in the Latin Quarter. Imagine a cup of coffee that isn't really coffee: we called it chicory coffee, made from a roasted root, because real coffee was scarce. With a piece of rationed bread, that was my whole breakfast. Then I would read, think, and start writing. Outside, German soldiers patrolled the streets. So I moved slowly, without noise, like walking on eggshells. Danger was part of the scenery, like rain.
Danger was part of the scenery, like rain.
—Is it true that before writing, you drew? What did you draw?
Yes! Before being a writer, I was an illustrator. I drew animals and plants for scientists, near the Muséum d'Histoire Naturelle de Paris. Imagine: they would place a tiny insect in front of me, and I had to copy it in pencil, every leg, every wing. You needed a fine pen and ink, a lot of patience. This job taught me to look at living things very closely. To understand what separates one beast from another. Later, this question followed me all my life: what makes a being a being? Drawing opened my eyes before words did.
Drawing taught me to look at living things very closely.
—Why did you set up a publishing house in secret?
Because in my time, we no longer had the right to say everything. The Germans occupied France, and they decided which books could be published. So, in 1941, with a friend named Pierre de Lescure, I created the Éditions de Minuit. A name that smelled of night, on purpose! Imagine a tiny hand-operated press, hidden, printing pages in secret. We called it clandestine publication: releasing books without the occupier's permission. It was tiny, but it was free. And a single free book, in a gagged country, weighs heavier than you might think.
A single free book, in a gagged country, weighs very heavy.
—Weren't you too scared of getting caught?
Yes, my child. Fear was there every day. You must understand one thing: if they discovered our little printing press, it wasn't a school punishment. It was arrest, sometimes death. That's what we risked. So we worked in small pieces, each knowing as little as possible about the others, to protect ourselves. The pages circulated from hand to hand, slipped under a coat. Imagine a messenger crossing the city with a secret in his pocket, heart racing. That was our daily life. But you know, being afraid and doing it anyway — that's exactly what courage is.
Being afraid and doing it anyway — that's exactly what courage is.
—Your most famous book, what is it really about?
It's called Le Silence de la mer, written in 1942. Imagine a French family, an uncle and his niece, forced to house a German officer. The man is polite, cultured, he talks, he almost apologizes. But the uncle and niece have chosen one thing: never to answer him. Not a word. Ever. Their silence becomes their only weapon, because they have no other. That was my way of resisting: without a gun, with paper. To show that you can refuse someone while remaining dignified, without shouting, without hitting. Just by keeping quiet, proudly.
Their silence becomes their only weapon, because they have no other.
—Why do they never answer the officer, even if he's nice?
Good question. Precisely because he seems nice! That's the trap. In the book, I describe him thus: 'He was a man of average height, neither fat nor thin, pale complexion, light blue eyes, ash-blond hair.' An ordinary man, almost likeable. But he wears the uniform of those who invaded the country. Answering him would mean accepting his presence, pretending everything is normal. Yet nothing was normal. Silence says: 'You are in our home by force, not by our consent.' It's a refusal that makes no noise, but never bends.
It's a refusal that makes no noise, but never bends.
—At night, in your house, were you scared?
At night, everything became strange, my child. Imagine a city where you have to turn off the lights and be home by a certain hour: we called that the curfew. Outside, no one, just the sound of boots sometimes. My lodging in the Latin Quarter was cold, heating was scarce, and we saved electricity. In the evening, I would correct my texts by the dim light of a lamp. Yes, I listened to footsteps on the stairs, heart tight: was it a neighbor, or the police? But you know, you even get used to fear. And then, writing kept me warmer than any fire.
Writing kept me warmer than any fire.
—Why did you take the name of a mountain?
Ah, my real name is Jean Bruller. 'Vercors' is a name I chose to hide. You see, the Vercors is a large mountain massif in Isère, near Grenoble. A rugged, wild place, hard to conquer. During the war, these mountains sheltered resistance fighters. So taking this name was like planting a secret flag: saying I was on the side of those who don't surrender. And also, a pseudonym protected me: if they looked for the author of the book, they looked for a ghost. A mountain name for a man who couldn't be caught.
A mountain name for a man who couldn't be caught.
—Throughout the war, did anyone know it was you?
No, no one, or almost! Imagine: thousands of people read Le Silence de la mer, passed it under the cloak, and wondered 'but who is this Vercors?' And it was me, that discreet little illustrator walking through Paris without being noticed. I kept that secret throughout the Occupation. Only in 1945, after the Liberation, did I finally reveal my real name, Jean Bruller. Can you imagine people's surprise? The ghost finally had a face. Keeping a secret that long takes almost as much courage as writing that book.
The ghost finally had a face.
—After the war, what did you write about? Still the Resistance?
Not only, my child. A big question kept gnawing at me: what is a human being? Remember, I had drawn animals all my youth. In 1964, I wrote a novel, Zoo ou l'Assommoir du Singe, which asks where the animal ends and where the human begins. Why did that matter so much to me? Because the war had shown me the worst: people treated as if they weren't human. I wanted to understand, and defend this simple idea: every person deserves respect. From the tiny insect I drew to human beings, I spent my life asking: who has the right to dignity?
Every person deserves respect: that's what I defended all my life.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Vercors's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.