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

Last night, two men tried to force my shutters. I recognized them: they are two of Rodin's Italian models. He told them to kill me. I am in his way; he wants to get rid of me.

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.

I took all my wax studies and threw them in the fire that's the way it is when something unpleasant happens to me. I take my hammer and I squash a figure.

I have had the problem of seeing my male model go to Italy and... stay there.

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

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