You must not be sick, you must not be a grumbler, my dear old troubadour. You must cough, blow your nose, get well, say that France is mad, humanity silly, and that we are crude animals; and you must love yourself, your kind, and your friends above all. I have some very sad hours. I look at MY FLOWERS, these two little ones who are always smiling, their charming mother and my wise hardworking son whom the end of the world will find hunting, cataloguing, doing his daily task, and gay withal AS PUNCH, in the RARE moments when he is resting.
He said to me this morning: “Tell Flaubert to come, I will take a vacation at once. I will play the marionettes for him, I will make him laugh.”
Life in a crowd forbids reflection. You are too much alone. Come quickly to our house and let us love you.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:54