Wednesday, 21 November 1883

I keep doggedly at the painting — I redo hands, sections — so I shall not speak of it anymore... because it is work, and time, and it is the same painting. Someone who has not seen me for two months will ask what I have done. What shall I be able to show? A large landscape, the Bojidar portrait, a sketch, and a woman's head — that is all, and in all of it nothing... Fortunately I have an idea... And believe me or not, but at moments I think myself in love with... a great artist. [Written crosswise: Well — no.] Well — no! Then I no longer know what it is. It is the frustration of not painting any better than this. That is the truth.