Paris 7th August.
Finally some respite with the cooler weather. Paris has been sweltering beneath the crushing summer heat. The smell of asphalt and impending storms. From the balcony of the studio I can see a great stretch of the city, pigeons flying over slate coloured roofs. A tall negro in an electric blue raincoat and a grey felt hat sweeps the pavement listlessly. This morning the market had an exotic air. An old lady hobbled from one stall to another, her sparse hair carefully combed back, her hand gripping the handle of her empty basket. Old people used to be as the dead whose legs kept moving. Now I see them as little older as myself. Will my bitterness die away? Will the dread of ageing take hold of me again? I must not look too far ahead. The horrors of death and farewells. False teeth, sciatica, infirmity, intellectual barrenness, loneliness in a strange world that no longer understands me and that will carry on without me. Will I be able to bear it? I must. Nous n’avons pas le choix.