A north wind blows, clearing everything, sky and country, cracking trees and vineyards. I just left the house and I can barely breathe. I love this wind, and yet I went back to my room to rest a little by your side. My dear, since I received your letter, a surprising softness has accompanied me. I may be wrong, since you may now feel apathetic and distant, while I recognize you so close to me, so soft that it is difficult for me to extricate myself from the amazement and pleasure that I have been overwhelmed by it.
During these slow days, because you were absent from me, I imagined you from here in my heart too, taking a kind of silent misery next to me. So I hope you will write to me again as soon as you receive my present letter. If I remember well, more than a week passed between your letters. If you think about the significance of the silence that prevailed during the week, you may realize that I really deserve that you send me again most of what you wrote earlier.
Life here is very boring and the days are the same. I have started working on my new play (Is the title “The Rope” a good one?)(1). Pictures of my characters are hanging on the wall. I re-read their lives. How exciting! Therefore, they need a very lofty spirit so that no betrayal occurs against them. When my thoughts turn to the 'actual' and wonderful theatrical piece that can emerge from the various folds of this, I feel uneasy and anticipate failure. However, when I work on this subject, I can do my best. Have genius! Then the quest becomes easy.
I have re-read your letter, and when I am done with my business, or have no desire to do anything, I sit before Luberon, contemplating while I smoke heavily, for I am less wise than you. Also, I swim. Then I go to sleep rather early, so I'm re-guided as a result of my sleep regimen.
