“ ... All I'm going to do or all I hope to do this year, I should and could have done in the year just passed. But I'm attacked by a frightful illness, which has never played such havoc with me as in this year — I mean my reveries, my depression, my discouragement, my indecision.

Truly, I consider the man who succeeds in healing himself of a vice as infinitely braver than a soldier or a man who defends his honor in a duel. But how to heal myself? How transform despair into hope, weakness into willpower? Is this illness imaginary or real? Has it become real after being imaginary? Could it be the result of a physical weakness, or an incurable melancholy resulting from so many stormy years, years spent without consolation, in solitude and wretchedness?

I've no idea, but what I do know is that I feel utterly disgusted with everything and particularly with all kinds of pleasure (that's no bad thing), and that the only feeling that convinces me I'm still alive is a vague desire for glory, vengeance, and fortune.”

— C. B. (31 December 1863)