June 8, 1958
Depressing Sunday. I come to raise the eyelid of God.
The same Sunday.
For thirty years I felt in my legs everyday a billion ants which persist ceaselessly. A billion pricks daily, sometimes scarcely perceptible, sometimes painful. A mixture of discomfort and disaster.
To create a work, a minimum of faith is needed — in oneself or in what one does. But when one doubts oneself and one’s enterprises, so much that this doubt is raised to the level of belief! Negative, sterile faith that leads to nothing, except endless complications or strangled cries.
Paris: insects compressed in a box. To be a famous insect. Every glory is ludicrous; everyone who aspires to it should truly have a taste for downfall.