… I don't feel influenced by Y. or D. I merely feel I've heard ideas like my ideas, but bigger ones, far more definite ones. And that there really is Hope—real Hope, not half-Hope… As for Tchehov being damned—why should he be? Can't you rope Tchehov in? I can. He's much nearer to me than he used to be.

It's nice to hear of Richard sawing off table-legs and being moved by the greengrocer. Why is it greengrocers have such a passion for bedding people out? … In my high little room for 10 francs a day with flowers in a glass and a quilted sateen bed-cover, I don't feel far from R. either. Oh, it's awfully nice to have passed private suites and marble-tops and private bathrooms by! Gone! Gone for ever! I found a little restaurant last night where one dines ever so sumptuous for 6–7 francs, and the page 250 grapes are tied with red satin bows, and someone gives the cat a stewed prune and someone else cries: “Le chat a mangé un compôte de pruneaux!”

True, one is no longer of people. But was one ever? This looking on, understanding what one can, is better.