When you left on Saturday, I felt a horrible void, I saw you everywhere, on the beach, in your room, in the garden: impossible for me to get used to the idea that you had left.

There is always something missing that torments me.

Madhouses are houses made on purpose to cause suffering . . . I cannot stand any longer the screams of these creatures.

I would have preferred to be successful here with a piece that cost me a huge amount of money and effort... rather than sending to Bohemia some ordinary works.

It is in fact agreed that I am the plague, the cholera of the benevolent and generous men who are interested in art and that, when I show myself with my plasters, even the Emperor of the Sahara would flee.

Sir Rodin convinced my parents to have me committed; they are all in Paris to arrange it.

I don't want to say anything because I know I am unable to protect you from the harm that I see.