Monday, 3 December 1883

Well then — I am intelligent; I credit myself with wit, with penetration... with all the cerebral qualities, in short. And I am just. Well, in these circumstances, why not judge oneself?... It ought to be possible, since I see clearly — so let us see. Am I truly someone, or am I truly going to be someone in art? What do I think of myself? Those are terrible questions... because I think ill of myself in relation to the ideal I wish to attain — yet on the other hand, in comparison with others... Excepting Bastien etc. and Breslau... I should like to have Breslau's technique applied to my feeling: that would be superb... One cannot judge oneself — and besides... as soon as it falls short of genius... and I have not yet done anything which could allow one to judge me definitively, even myself. In any case I am convinced I have none... That was hard to admit... And then who does have it? Gounod, Verdi, Bastien (?), Michelangelo, Balzac, Dumas, Hugo, Rubens, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Chopin, Millet — but they are dead. Nobody grants it to Bastien. So? In any case? Well — I do not believe I have it, but I hope the world will believe I do. And as a last resort, I should content myself with a fame like Jules's — or Carolus's¹ — or any of those.