It’s a huge Carthusian monastery, stuck down between rocks and sea, where you may imagine me, without white gloves or hair curling, as pale as ever, in a cell with such doors as Paris never had for gates. The cell is the shape of a tall coffin, with an enormous dusty vaulting, a small window… Bach, my scrawls and waste paper – silence – you could scream – there would still be silence. Indeed, I write to you from a strange place.