Friday, 29 June 1883

And to begin with: if I tried to draw at three, and if I made caricatures at ten, I wrote down my impressions at nine and sketched out a novel at fifteen — likewise. And since then...
Is not the finest portrayal of all the portrayal of human feelings? That sums up everything. It is the flower of the mind, the heart, the soul — the most exquisite and most noble quintessence of human intelligence. Without it, what remains of glory, of love, of art itself? And in the end, what would be the use of having set down whatever might pass through my head or my heart?
Are not the letters of the Cimiez monks to the Astonishing but Stupid Emile d'Audiffret a most amusing and witty piece of fun? Unfortunately, the allusions to the illustrious nobodies of Nice will be lost...
Will be lost. Am I destined for publication, then?
Oh! Yes! It is like sculpture. I would like to know how to sculpt, in order to express the beautiful things I see — just as I would like to know how to write, in order to recount a quantity of things that are suffocating me. But painting! I paint pictures because I know how to paint. The difference is enormous! Ah! My God — provided I live long enough.