Anarchy reigns in Russia. Germans are taking what they want, soldiers are on a rampage, and there's no end to it.
I have grown horribly thin, but will soon get better. Moscow is a total dump, the yard cleaners are on strike and are preventing others from cleaning the streets. And, of course, it is those who are poorer who suffer. The bourgeoisie have taken their children to Crimea while those of others are playing in manure. This is not good. And the revolution is assuming a singularly economic character.
Organisation, talk talk and more talk. It’s the same with the Soviet of Artistic Organisations and the Educational Committee for the Soviet of Workers’ Deputies. Work here, there and everywhere. I haven’t written my article for the magazine and my pieces still aren’t ready, but I think it should all be finished by 8 June. It’s an anxious time, generally. For some reason, the workers of the world are failing to unite. England doesn’t want to end the war. God, when will we see an end to this inhumane war? Can it really be so difficult to say to all these people of different nations “enough”? After all, the Russian people have told the whole world “Enough!”
March has been vile and wretched. I have not been working, feeling wretched and everything has become muddled, somehow. There have been endless boring meetings of delegates. There was an argument with Mayakovsky, which was horrible and distasteful. I don’t know what he must think of me, but I gave him a piece of my mind.
I saw Rodchenko today. He’s just the person with whom I can work.
Tomorrow riots are expected. Lord, may this all be over as soon as possible.
My salvation, my only salvation, is art. I'm still an amateur, but I will become professional. If there’s a magazine [willing to take me on], I’ll work a great deal for it.
We ran with Malevich and filed a transfer request for Moscow, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. It’s impossible to do anything alone but there’s no one else. Exter was sick. There’s some kind of emptiness and solitude, and we’re senselessly beating on the walls, and there’s no one there or left.
What is it that binds wealth of spirit with poverty? After all, it’s not difficult to obtain a comfortable style of life, but by God is it dull.
I’ve got a large canvas ready, something will come of it, although I’m sick of anything which is not painting in its purest of forms. I’m happy only with pure colours and materials and the like. Well, something will come of it.
What’s the good of this endless anxiety? Even if I subsequently find fame and fortune, no glory or wealth could ever be worth the pain of these arduous years.