Wednesday, 25 December 1878 — Christmas

My father lunches with us. He bores me completely, and I trust he feels all my coldness.
I put on a mask of nonchalance to avoid taking note of all the unpleasant or hurtful allusions of this character, whom I endure for Paul's sake.
There is nothing in the world more poisonous than the words of this man who is my father.
"My God, my dear," I tell him, "don't play the fool. I am not in the least hurt — but I am annoyed to see that you intend to sting me."
This man fills me with despair at life; his words freeze me and have the effect of a spell. I hate him absolutely.