Would you please be kind enough to send me a copy of Clausewitz’s La Campaigne de 1799 for review in Le Monde Diplomatique?

With thanks.

You could have spared yourself the displeasure of a useless request.

In fact, if you were better informed, you would have known that, for the last two years, we no longer send out books to Le Monde or any other newspaper.

Naturally, this fact escaped you, like many other things, pestered as you are by the flood of journalistic sub-information.

If you read the declaration[1] that appears at the beginning of our catalogue, you will also learn what I think of you.

[1] See our translation of this document.

I did not know that one of your titles was requested in my name: you are the one who informed me of this. It was only a secretarial error.

My “sub-information” exceeds what you believe: I didn’t know about the existence of your “Champ Libre” and, consequently, you yourself, until now. I would not allow myself to think whatever I want about you. Since you obviously don’t know me, can I hope that you will consent to inform me of what you think of me?

Furthermore, I must say that I have found nothing that relates to me personally in your interesting “Declaration” (of war).

I worsen my case by specifying that I am not the “pestered person” [le “harcelé”] whom you are pleased to imagine. I work tranquilly in the company of trees; I am in fact not someone sick with information, and I only receive books to have the perversity to ask for them again.

Also, I did not unduly keep a copy of your catalogue, nor do I keep whatever is sent out for free by your publishing house: these things would be more useful for you in the hands of a potential client.

You alone can appreciate the sincerity of the sentiments with which you honor me: I comply in advance and ask you, Sir, to believe in the sincerity of mine.

The fact that one of the letters that you have appeared to sign is false, as you would like us to believe, is no matter to us. A great many more laughable falsehoods, to say nothing of your current imbecilities, have appeared under your signature in Le Monde without you protesting, not that anyone is surprised by this fact.

Don’t tell us your life story! The pranks that you can pull with your “Secretariat,” and the things those unfortunate people can do without you, hardly matter to us. And the fact that you are now “in the company of trees” doesn’t change anything. We advise you to climb upon the most majestic branch [you can find] and there receive your Manager.

Your band of monkeys has played around long enough with its stock of typewriters.

[1] Publisher’s note: this letter was returned to its sender with the handwritten notation: “Paper to be returned to sender; unfit for only possible use.”