Friday, 30 June 1882

Well, all this tires me, disgusts me. I have had enough...
Yes, in a way I cannot find my place; I wander... I do Nothing! That is the misfortune!
The other day Julian and I talked about it; he says that for a year and a half now I have done nothing at all — a month’s work here and there, by fits and starts, in bursts of passion... then nothing. No perseverance, no self-discipline, no real energy! It is true. I have lost my way; I need to get through a great deal of work, a study every week, and instead I go hunting after thirty-six things, and when something appeals to me I lose heart because I am not capable of doing it. I need an example of hard work before me, and I cannot... I tried to go back to the atelier and I could not. Shall I be able to work alone? I am bewildered; I no longer know where to go or what to do. I have not the strength to do a simple study; I must always undertake too much, and as it does not come out well I fall into despair. And now it is a nervous condition... Besides, I shall never paint; I have never, never, never been able to paint a single passage well, and I have been painting for three and a half years... I have lost half of them, I admit, but all the same... In short, I am out of breath; one must have the courage, the will to recover, and it will come back little by little. I shall go back. No — it would take some great stroke to set me afloat again...
And I very much fear that this great stroke can only be a succession of patient efforts... But then comes that terrible conviction that I shall not be able to, that I shall not paint. So — models!
You will come back to painting all the same, but weaker still... And then.
Then it is better to die.