Sunday, 20 January 1884

I work on Claire’s painting and hope to finish it in two or three days.
The woman herself is already painted. What I am doing here is not quite honest, and I feel a certain disgust at it — mixed with satisfaction at being able to do so easily what these ladies will never manage.
The girl has painted a few bunches of flowers, but I shall add more and repaint, so that... The painting shows a street vendor with her barrow full of flowers, life-size, if you please. It is false naturalism — but no matter.
Old Boulanger indicated the pose for the vendor, and I have scrupulously carried out what he said so as to bear no responsibility — though I find the pose idiotic and ordinary... It is a street vendor posed according to the rules of composition... Ugh!
Let us speak of something else.
I have no friends, I love no one, and no one loves me.
If I have no friends it is because — I feel it clearly — in spite of myself I let it be seen too plainly from what heights “I look down upon the crowd.” No one likes to be humiliated.
I might console myself by thinking that truly superior natures have never been loved. People gather around them, bask in their light — and deep down loathe them, and the moment they can, they defame them. Just now there is talk of a statue to Balzac, and the newspapers publish recollections and information gathered from the great man’s friends. It is enough to make one sick with disgust — such friends! — each racing to reveal some ugly trait, some absurdity, some baseness. I prefer enemies; one believes them less.