The storm at present is hanging over; it has withdrawn to await reinforcements—a horrible lowering violet sky, a boiling sea like porridge, snow on the mountains. Fancy, with that, to get more air I had one side of the net up last night and I am bitten frightfully by mosquitoes. This is almost laughable…. Everything about this côte d'azur is lies. Why does one believe it? One might as well believe that London is a rich, magnificent city, or that the Midland Hotel, Manchester, is the most comfortable place in the world. Why believe liars? Everybody lies. I don't know: but there you are. Dostoevsky at least understood through and through….

I feel a bit like the outside elements. At least I feel that they've had their way with me for the moment, and I'm now high and dry, on a rocky ledge looking up at the sky and simply vaguely wondering.

I hope to get work done to-day; I long to—ah, so much! ! If that were possible I'd get back my spirit. When that goes (the power to work) then I'm nothing, just a straw before the wind. And I feel one must hurry… page 275 Believe that I try All I can, every single bit I can. Nothing less than La Faiblesse (who is really the toughest old hag of them all) keeps me from the performance of my promises.

Good God! There's a little wavering gleam of sun on the wall—white, still. It makes everything look shabby and dirty. It's gone again.

Perhaps now I have encountered the whole troupe of fiends so early I shall get the better of them and be at peace. I suppose anyone who has lived my life of the last two years is bound to have these moments. That is what I hope….

But to walk, kiss the earth, run, laugh, go in and out of houses and rooms—if I could do any of these things!

“You are always an invalid—hein?” says Bobone, looking at me with absolutely inexpressive red eyes like an ox—no whites to them at all. “Vot is your age? Dirty-five?”

“No,” I said. “Dirty-one.”

“Zo.”

Well, well, well. Why do I feel like this about Dostoevsky—my Dostoevsky—no one else's—a being who loved, in spite of everything adored Life even while he knew the dark, dark places?