Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 21 September 1877

Deep disgust with myself. I hate everything I have done, said and written. I detest myself because I have not justified a single one of my hopes. I have deceived myself. I am foolish, I lack tact and have always lacked it.
Point out to me one witty word or reasonable act of mine. Nothing but folly. I thought myself witty — I am absurd. I thought myself proud — I have always been servile. I thought myself bold — I am a coward. I thought myself talented — and I do not know what I have done with it. And on top of all that, the pretension to write charming things! Ah my Emperor!
You will perhaps take what I have just said for wit — it looks like it, but it is not. I have the skill to judge myself exactly, which gives the appearance of modesty, and of a heap of other things. I hate myself!
I am tormented over the cut of my dresses. My winter ones, you understand. My great genius stoops to these trifles. No, let us not speak with such contempt — one might think it a small feeling of tender pride.
Larderei's handkerchief serves me as a pen-wiper this evening.
Berthe writes to me.
We talked of choosing a residence and I have come to believe there is no city for us. Added to that, a million superstitions; one imposes exasperating conditions on oneself: if I do this, such a thing will happen; if the first person I meet is such-and-such, what I want will or will not come to pass, etc. etc.
My dresses occupy me most of all.
Some even think that Neapolitan society is very well disposed and that after Naples one might think of Rome. All that is nonsense. One must have a home above all.