Friday, 14 November 1879

If for several days I often say nothing it is because I do not find it interesting to tell you about Laferriere, about hats or other stories of that sort. I continue always my agreeable existence as a recluse and yesterday, 13 November, I turned twenty-one. But that is a detail.
This evening I told my mother, one never believes threats until the day when it happens, and if I kill myself, it will cause her far more trouble than to put herself out a little for me now. It will be my revenge. I think with pleasure of that, they will pay for all they make me suffer. And I who was enraged against them... on that side therefore all is well. They will still be a little inconvenienced, the poor dear women. But I would like to satisfy myself in another way. The prospect of their grimace at my death does soften my rage against them a little but...
Until now I was charitable toward my fellow beings, I never said nor repeated the evil that people say, I always took the defense of anyone attacked in my presence with the self-interested thought that perhaps they would do as much for me, I always defended even those I did not know while praying to God to have it returned to me, I never seriously had the idea of harming anyone whatsoever, and if I desired fortune or power it was with ideas of generosity, of goodness, of charity whose greatness astonishes me. But this does not succeed for me. I will still continue to give twenty sous to a poor man in the street because those people bring tears to my eyes, but I do believe I am going to become wicked.
It would be beautiful however to remain good however embittered, unhappy and crushed one might be. But it would be amusing to become spiteful, wicked, slanderous, harmful... Since it is all the same to God and he gives me credit for nothing. Besides one must believe that God is not what we imagine. God is perhaps nature itself, and all the events of life are presided over by Chance which sometimes brings strange coincidences and events that make one believe in a Providence.
As for our prayers, our religions, our conversations with God... I am well paid to believe them useless.
Saint-Marceaux left his cards.
To feel oneself with an intelligence, with strength to move heaven and earth, and to remain locked up, dead.
I do not cry out but all these torments will write themselves in wrinkles on my face, one believes it does not matter when one is silent, but these things always come back to the surface.