I am holding these old papers, crumpled and worn for having changed hiding-places so often, and I read them over again. They were written in secret, unknown to my jail-keepers, and as such, they express a kind of survival of my independence; that is why they are dear to me, if only as mere objects-the plain reality of paper. They were written at times when I was struggling, through writing, to overcome the anguish of being in prison. This explains why they are not clearly formulated thoughts-nor letters, of course. They are simply fragments of that anguish. And yet I did not write them for myself alone. Among so many other things, the anguish of being in prison is also a deep need to communicate with one's fellow human beings. It is a need that suffocates one, at times. Now I understand why shipwrecks stranded on desert islands slip messages inside bottles and cast them into the sea. These writings are something like that. I am not a shipwreck, and I don't feel like one. But I have the same desperate need for communication; hence these forlorn messages. I even know for whom I have written them and whom I would like them to reach. They are the people who, while not actually living the drama of my country, are capable of understanding it. Being in prison is a catharsis, and it clears up a great many things in one's mind, almost automatically. Locked up in here, I often think of the various friends I have, scattered all over Eurol2, wd I have a feeling that they are thinking of me too. We speak the same idiom, and we understand each other. There are friends in other countries as well, but my European friends are naturally closest to me. And y-t we are mercilessly separated by the barbed wire which fences in humanity in this country today. It is as if they were standing on dry land, while we are being drawn far away at sea by a strong dark current. It is only natural, then, that these signals of diitress should be addressed to them. This is precisely what I am doing, sending signals to my friends, both to those I have known and to those I have not chanced to meet. Signals that do not say very much and that certainly do not ask for anything. Buit they do give me something very precious: the feeling that I still exist, and that they exist too, quite close to ma. We can still see each other.