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

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.

I have been back in Paris for two weeks. Nothing new. Life is still bitter.

My countrymen have commissioned a bust of the Republic. It will be placed on the fountain of my native town.

There is always something missing that torments me.

You know what black hatred women feel toward me as soon as they see me, until I return inside my shell, they use every possible weapon. As soon as a generous man tries to help me out, a woman is here to hold his arm and prevent him from acting.

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.