Imagine me, between rocks and sea, in a cell in an
Immense, deserted monastery, it's doors bigger than the
Coach entrance to any Paris mansion. Here I am with my
Hair uncurled, no white gloves, and as pale as usual. My
Cell, shaped like a great coffin, has a vast and dusty arched
Ceiling, and a little window looking to the garden with its
Orange trees, palms and cypresses. Opposite the window
Below a rosette in the lacy Moorish style, is a camp-bed
Beside the bed is an old untouchable, a kind of square
Desk, on which stands a wax candle ... on the same desk
Bach, my scribbles, and other papers, not mine... (....and
The orange trees, palms and cypresses...) Silence... If
You shout ... silence again... In short I am writing from a
Very strange place...