My dear Jacques, I'm probably picking up my quill for the last time today - what a nonsensical phrase! even among similar phrases! "picking up the quill" would have been the most atrocious way of correspondence! - to let you know about my existence, which is only distinguished by the fact that nothing is happening at all. Life goes on, it feels like being wrapped in a duvet: this country is for the "neutral" people, and the last three long months have gone and left nothing behind. See more
Here the weather is hopelessly bad… I have never in my life seen so much rain. Your only relief is that you don’t see the mountains, although it is sad to console oneself with the thought that others are in even worse circumstances… It seems that now I can truly say, if we had remained in Paris, it could have hardly been worse for me! See more
My dear Jacques, if you have any insight into what on Earth’s going on in Russia, do be so kind as to fill me in. These people have the most curious understandings of responsibility! You know this common way of speaking of “mysterious Russia”... If mysterious means insane, then I am in full agreement. See more
There are mornings when it seems to be as difficult to do my toilet as to perform one of the twelve feats of Hercules! And I'm still waiting for something - revolution or earthquake - something that would spare me from this difficult routine.
The human mechanism is something very mysterious, and I never manage to discipline my will, I forget the simplest things and I curse myself a hundred times a day. And yet I finished the sonata for violin and piano, the ending of which defended against me, like a hundred of boches. See more
My dear Diaghilev, I tried to spot you as I left the performance of the ballet, to no avail. I called you on the phone in Chatelet, but I think it would’ve been easier to reach God.
I have been put to bed... yesterday, when I left to fetch some coal, the cold got to my lower back and now I’m suffering like St. Sebastian.