21 June 1915 – 27 June 1915

If sometimes you saw me in my room by myself, you would say I was a ridiculous coxcomb. For I walk about, look out of the window then at the mirror--turning my head sideways perhaps so as to see it in profile. Or I gaze down into my eyes--my eyes always impress me--and wonder what effect I produce on others. This, I believe, is not so much vanity as curiosity. I know I am not prepossessing in appearance--my nose is crooked and my skin is blotched. Yet my physique--because it is mine--interests me. I like to see myself walking and talking. I should like to hold myself in my hand in front of me like a Punchinello and carefully examine myself at my leisure.