We seem to be still far from the forest; and even though the great trees already cast their shadow over us, we still have a long journey to make before we walk under their branches.

It is in the heart of the city that one writes the most inspired pages about the country.

DECEMBER

Fingers knotty as a chicken’s neck.

The chatting of the chairs, lined up before the guests arrive on a reception day.

Work thinks; laziness muses.

She has a very mean way of being kind.

In the goodness of things, the sea-shell is related to the stone.

1888

In order to do certain crazy things, it is necessary to behave like a coachman who has let go of the reins and fallen asleep.

JR marries Marie Morneau (Marinette in the Journal). He publishes, at his own expense, Crime de Village, a collection of short stories dedicated to his father.

AUGUST

In the woods, after lunch. We sit under a pine, above a rivulet running in the bark of a tree. A few bottles cooling in the water. Twigs dipping into it as though from thirst. The water rushes along, white with a few clear pools, so cold they almost hurt. My fat baby leans over my shoulder to see what I am writing. I kiss her, and it’s delicious.

Nothing more boring than Gautier’s portraits. The face is delineated feature by feature, with minute, encumbering details. Nothing of all this remains in the mind. Here is an error in this great writer, into which the modern school is careful not to fall. We depict with one precise word which makes an image, and no longer spend our time at microscopic surveys.

One morning, D. came to see me and said: “If you like, we’ll buy two deal tables and each get a velvet skull cap, and then we’ll start an Institution.”

OCTOBER

Received a letter from my father that saddened me. Nothing about Crime de Village; not a word. Another vanity I shall have to get rid of.

He made a poem and began it thus: “Muse, tell me nothing! Keep quiet, Muse!”

NOVEMBER

Words are the small change of thought. Certain talkers pay us in ten-sou bits. Others, on the other hand, give out only gold pieces.

A thought written down is dead. It was alive. It lives no longer. It was a flower. Writing it down has made it artificial, that is to say, immutable.

Sometimes conversation dies out like a lamp. You turn up the wick. A few ideas bring out another gleam, but, decidedly, there is no oil left.

The poet should do more than dream: he should observe. I am convinced it is through observation that poetry must renew itself. It demands a transformation analogous to that which has taken place in the novel. Who would believe that an ancient mythology still oppresses us! What point is there to sing that the tree is inhabited by a faun? It is inhabited by itself. The tree lives: it is that fact which must be believed. A plant has a soul. A leaf is not what vain man thinks it is. We often talk of dead leaves, but we don’t really believe that they die.