* * * * *
In English novels, with their insipid sweetness that always reminds me
of the smell of frost-bitten potatoes, the heroine sometimes permits
herself the luxury of being blind, lame, or disfigured by smallpox. The
hero adores her just the same. How false to life! My existence would
have been very different if ten years ago I had lost my long eyelashes,
if my fingers had become deformed, or my nose shown signs of redness....
A red nose! It is the worst catastrophe that can befall a beautiful
woman. I always suspected this was the reason why Adelaide Svanstroem
took poison. Poor woman, unluckily she did not take a big enough dose!
* * * * *
JANUARY.
My senses are reawakening. Light and sound now bring me entirely new
impressions; what I see, I now also feel, with nerves of which hitherto
I did not suspect the existence. When evening draws on I stare into the
twilight until everything seems to shimmer before my eyes, and I dream
like a child.
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