March 1:47 Thursday It is somehow march and very late, and outside a warm large wind is blowing so that the trees and clouds are torn and the stars are scudding. I have been gliding on that wind since noon, and coming back tonight, with the gas fire wailing like the voice of a phoenix, and having read Verlaine and his lines cursing me, and having just come newly from Cocteau’s films “La Belle et La Běte” and “Orphée” can you see how I must stop writing letters to a dead man and put one on paper which you may tear or read or feel sorry for.
