I was certainly going the right way for a stroke when i left paris. I paid for it nicely afterwards! When i stopped drinking, when i stopped smoking so much, when i began to think again instead of trying not to think - good lord, the depression and the prostration of it! Work in these magnificent natural surroundings (arles) has restored my morale, but even now some efforts are too much for me: my strength fails me.
She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling oh. I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.
This is what you do on your very first day in paris. You get yourself, not a drizzle, but some honest-to-goodness rain, and you find yourself someone really nice and drive her through the bois de boulogne in a taxi. The rain's very important. That's when paris smells its sweetest. It's the damp chestnut trees.