In earlier days (even as a child), the beauty of landscapes was quite clear to me. A background for the soul’s moods. Now dangerous moments occur when Nature tries to devour me; at such times I am annihilated, but at peace. This would be fine for old people, but I…, I am my life’s debtor, for I have given promises. To whom? To me, to her (loudly and firmly), to my friends (silently, but no less firmly).

      Frightened, I jump up from the bank, the struggle begins anew. Bitterness has returned. I am not Pan in the reeds, I am merely a human being and want to climb a few steps, but really climb them. Affect the world, but not as part of a multiplicity like bacteria, but as an entity, down here, with connections to what is up there. To be anchored in the cosmos, a stranger here, but strong. This, I suppose, will probably be the final goal. But how to reach it? To grow, for the time being, simply to grow.

      As exercise: To set up goals that do not hold for the multitude – a kind of playing of études. Higher things will then follow more smoothly, more easily. Peace doesn’t exist, the peaceful man devoured himself (one evening, in the Bächimatt, near Thun). O individual, you who serve no-one, you useless one! Create aims for yourself: play, delude yourself and others, be an artist. Now, so many substitute aims lie about that the choice is painful. The wanderers on the path of art damnedly resemble the vagabonds on the road. Schiller’s Fiesco, good subject, and Poems. Gorki, The Vagabond.

      22.6.1902. Everything that used to be foreign to me, all the rational procedures in my profession, I now begin to resort to after all from necessity, at least as a matter of experiment. Apparently I am becoming perfectly sober and small, perfectly unpoetic and unenthusiastic. I imagine a very small formal motif and try to execute it economically, not in several stages of course, but in a single act, armed with a pencil. At least it is genuine activity, and repeated small acts will yield more in the end than poetic enthusiasm without form or arrangement.

      I am continually occupied with the nude body, which is well adapted to this kind of work. I project on the surface; that is, the essence of the subject must always become visible, even if this is impossible in nature, which is not adapted to this relief style. The absence of foreshortening also plays a crucial part in the process. It is small and tight work, but at least it has become a real activity.

      I am starting to learn all over again: I begin to execute forms as if I knew nothing about painting. For I have discovered a very small, undisputed, personal possession: a particular sort of three-dimensional representation on the flat surface. And when night comes I can lie down with the consciousness that work has been accomplished. And that also means something. A flying man! I force the third dimension into the flat plane. Disposition of the arms, paired legs, absence of foreshortening. I even dream about it. I dream of myself. I dream that I become my model. Projected self. Upon awakening, I realise the truth of it. I lie in a complicated position, but flat, attached to the linen surface. I am my style.