Sunday, 22 July 1883

Last night I cauterised my chest — above the right breast, at the place where the lung is affected. I finally made up my mind to do it: it will leave a yellow mark for three or four months, but at least I shall not die consumptive.
I need to be very strong.
What if people find this beautiful thing insipid? Why?
Spring, evening, night, sleep... These are always allegories whose splendour or insipidity depends entirely on who treats them. Then?
I am full of doubts... It seems to me too beautiful — but perhaps it is too beautiful... A cliché...
And then, what likelihood that I shall produce from inspiration like this something colossal, something difficult?... They will say it is not by me! For it will be good! Come — I know how to draw, and most sculptors do not; and they are stupid, and without invention. It is much easier to sculpt a figure than to paint one.
The difficulty in sculpture begins only at talent — and there too... It is a paradox.
It is easy to model in an ordinary way. But if one can do more... It is no longer a question of difficulty but of talent and temperament.
The craft I do not know. But I shall not make grammatical errors. And when one knows one’s grammar, talent is either there or it is not — one can only learn the grammar.
I place my figures very correctly in space; it remains to be seen how I can execute an arm or a leg... It seems to me so much a conquered city that I think no one will believe it... And what a sensation! This is not a work of sentiment like the Holy Women, which might, alas, pass unnoticed — but this will impose itself on everyone; a brutal success that will force attention to the sentimental abstractions like Nausicaa or the Holy Women. I see this enormous uproar — people will want to be introduced to me, as I do when I admire someone... Artists will want to know who made this for me. They will not believe it. Do I seem mad with confidence? No — I am dreaming and sharing my reveries with you. Besides, others might have made a work this large and attracted attention by that means — yes, but often those capable of executing it cannot afford it; a group of two or three figures already costs a great deal. Those who think of doing a single figure, unnoticed, could attract attention with a large composition, but the money is lacking. And for a statue to bring glory, it must be truly admirable.
It seems to me I am depreciating it in advance by attributing the success to its size... And yet — to compose is still something.
No one knows the subject, and I shall tell no one, from superstition. I shall make a life-size sketch and show it when it is well advanced.
Those brutes who have been sculpting for ten years will not believe it. Incompetents.
To dull the burn, I fell asleep last night with opium, and all morning felt on the point of fainting — and now it has almost passed, and I am working on the sketch.
Prodigious, my dear. But in short, if I succeed, my biography will make a host of people — all the proud, all the vain incompetents — believe they too were simply aware of their genius.
But if I fail — what a lesson!!
Rosalie says she is dumbfounded to see Mademoiselle undertaking things like this before having made so much as a bust.
She may be right. Am I not mad?