Sunday, 1 June 1884

With all this I have done nothing for a month!
Yes I have — I have been reading Sully-Prudhomme since yesterday morning. I have two volumes of him here and find it very good... I pay little attention to verse as such — I only notice it when it is bad and gets in the way; otherwise there is for me only the idea expressed. They enjoy rhyming — let them rhyme, but let me not notice. So the very subtle ideas of Sully-Prudhomme please me infinitely. And there is in him a very elevated quality, almost abstract, very fine, very quintessential, that perfectly accords with my way of feeling. Why did I write to Maupassant?
Sully-Prudhomme answers far better to the unconfessed tenderness of my most intimate reveries.
I have just read, now lying on the divan, now walking on my balcony, the preface to Lucretius's work and the work itself — De natura rerum. Those who know what that is will give me credit for it. It requires great mental tension to understand all of it; [Words blacked out: It must be a psychological reading] even for those accustomed to handling such subjects. I understood everything — it slipped away at moments, but I returned to it and forced myself to regain the thread...
I ought to have great respect for Sully-Prudhomme for writing things I grasp with such difficulty. The handling of these ideas is as familiar to him as the handling of colours is to me... He ought therefore also to have a saintly veneration for me, because with a few muddy colours — as the antipathetic Th. Gautier said (and Zola judges him as I do — though when I had judged him I had not yet read Zola) — with a few muddy colours I create faces that express human feelings, and paintings in which one sees nature, trees, air, distances. He must think himself a thousand times superior to a painter, rummaging fruitlessly in the mechanism of human thought.
What does he teach himself and others? How the mind functions?
By giving names to all these rapid, elusive intellectual movements. I, poor ignorant creature, think that this subtle philosophy will teach no one anything — it is a search, a delicate and difficult amusement, but why? Is it by learning to give names to all these [Words blacked out: sublime] and marvellous things that geniuses will be formed who write beautiful books? Or the extraordinary men who will think at the head of the universe? And then, as he says, man can know of an object only that by which he is in communication with it, and so forth.
Most of those who read me will understand nothing of this, yet I will quote again: "Our knowledge therefore cannot exceed the knowledge of our categories as applied to our perceptions." Good — obviously.
We cannot understand more than we are capable of understanding.
That is clear. There is the lover I would need.
And they want me to go to Mme Kanchine's this evening! Never. Claire lunched here and we talked about Sully-Prudhomme — I had the book in my hand. She is an intelligent girl, and her mother keeps her abreast of everything.
If I had had a proper education I should be quite remarkable. I have taught myself everything — I drew up my own course of study in Nice with the lycée teachers, who could not get over it. Half by intuition, half from what I was reading, I wanted to know this and that. Then I read the Greeks and the Latins and the French and English classics and the moderns and everything. But it is a chaos, even though I try to bring order to all of it out of my love of harmony in all things.
What is this name Sully-Prudhomme? I bought his books six months ago, and having tried to read him I dismissed him as agreeable verse. Today I discover things in him worthy of capturing my attention, and I read it straight through — driven to it by the visit of that poor Coppée, whom I do not admire in the slightest. But Coppée did not mention him, nor did anyone else, so what is the connection, and why?
It is evident that with very great effort I could analyse this intellectual work philosophically. But why? Will it change what I have thought?
There is writing for you. Read it and tell me if I do not have a journalist's temperament.
In a congenial environment, within a month I should be completely at my ease. But I wear out my verve and energy writing things that remain buried in a small circle. Ah! Wretchedness!
I am not, and have never been, in my proper place.

Notes

De rerum natura (On the Nature of Things), the philosophical poem by Lucretius (c. 99–55 BC), presenting the Epicurean materialist view of the universe. Marie writes De natura rarum — her slight misquotation preserved from the original.