Wednesday, 30 August 1882

First the upholsterer disturbs me in my painting, then another workman, then a shower of rain, then the little girl who will not pose at all, and finally Félix who comes for heaven knows what... And in the end I come to write so as not to weep. I am exasperated to the uttermost!!... The moment I have drawn, prepared, and am about to paint, something arrives to prevent it, so that I am in despair at the start of every study, since I am almost never able to finish. And it is death. I am very unhappy.
Art — it is not even art; the torments of an artist are something noble... I have no right to claim so much — these are nothing but the common vexations of a creature to whom nothing succeeds.
What am I doing? Nothing!
I begin, I abandon, I begin again — and while others produce a study every week, I!... I consume myself in futile efforts, like trying to cry out in a nightmare and being unable to.
And the time passes.