Romain Gary, LIFE Magazine, 22 Dec. 1967
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You will probably wonder, reading this letter, what could have prompted a zoological specimen so deeply preoccupied with the future of his own species, to write it. The reason of course, is self-preservation. For a long time now I have had the feeling that our destinies are linked. In these perilous days of “the balance of terror,” of overkill and estimates telling how many of us could hope to survive a nuclear holocaust, it is only natural that my thoughts should turn to you. In my eyes, dear Elephant, sir, you represent to perfection everything that is threatened today with extinction in the name of progress, efficiency, ideology, materialism, or even reason, for a certain abstract, inhuman use of reason and logic are becoming more and more allies of our murderous folly. It seems clear today that we have been merely doing to other species, and to yours in the first place, what we are on the verge of doing to ourselves.
We met for the first time almost a century ago in my nursery. We shared the same bed for many years, and I never went to sleep without kissing your trunk and then holding you tightly in my arms, until the day came when my mother took you away, telling me, with a certain absence of logic, that I was a big boy now and therefore could no longer have an elephant for a pet. Psychologists will no doubt say that my “fixation” on elephants goes back to that painful moment of separation, and that my longing for your company is actually a nostalgia for my long gone innocence and childhood. And, indeed, you are precisely that in my eyes: a symbol of purity, a dream of paradise lost, a yearning for the impossible, of man and beast living peacefully together.
Years later, somewhere in Sudan, we met again. I was returning from a bombing mission over Ethiopia, and brought down my damaged plane south of Khartoum, on the western bank of the Nile. I walked for three days to reach water and to have the most satisfying drink of my life, thus, as it turned out later, contracting typhoid and almost dying. You appeared before me among some meager acacia trees, and at first I thought I was a victim of hallucination. For you were red, dark red, from trunk to tail, and the sight of a red elephant sitting on his rear end and purring made my hair stand on end. Yes, you were purring. I have learned since then that this deep rumbling is a sign of satisfaction, and I suppose the bark of the tree you were eating was particularly delicious. It took me some time to realize that you were red from wallowing in the mud and that meant the proximity of water. I edged forward, and you became aware of my presence. You perked up your ears, and your head seemed to triple in size, while your whole mountain of a body disappeared behind those suddenly hoisted sails. You were no more than 60 or 70 yards from me and I could not only see your eyes but feel them, as if my stomach had eyes of its own. I was too weak to run. Besides, my exhaustion, fever and thirst were greater than my fear. I therefore did the only thing that I could do under the circumstances: I gave up. I have given up quite a few times, during the war, closing my eyes and waiting for death, and each time I have been given a medal for bravery.
When I opened my eyes again, you were asleep. I suppose you had not seen me or had taken one look at me and became overcome with boredom. Anyway, you were standing there, your trunk limp, yours ears collapsed, your eyes closed, and I remember that tears came to my eyes. I was seized by an almost irresistible urge to come close to you, to press your trunk against me, to huddle against your hide, and there, fully protected, to sleep peacefully forever. The strangest feeling came over me: I knew it was my mother who had sent you. She had relented at last and had given you back to me.
