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John Self @john-self.bsky.social · 26/11/2025

Jules Renard’s journal, 14 February 1890

14 February.

Avid to know everything, and keep abreast, I have acquired a taste for very short books, easy to read, large type with a lot of white space - so that I can toss them into my bookcase, one after another, and move on to the next.

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John Self @john-self.bsky.social · 26/11/2025

Jules Renard’s journal, 28 June 1899

28 June.

When I used to see my father walking from one window to the other, stooped, silent, hands behind his back, a deep expression on his face, I used to ask myself: What is he thinking?" Today I know, because I walk to and fro in exactly the same manner, with the same expression, and can answer in all certainty: 'Nothing'.

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John Self @john-self.bsky.social · 27/11/2025

“A little above the waist, a black place, resembling a small burnt-out fire.” Jules Renard discovers the body of his father, who had shot himself in the heart.

I ram the door with my shoulder, and eventually it gives.

Smoke and a smell of powder. I find myself crying out: 'Oh, Papa, Papa! What's this! Well look what you've done! Oh! Oh!’

And still I do not believe it; he is surely joking. I do not believe his white face, his open mouth, or that dark patch, near the heart.

Borneau, who was returning from Corbigny, and is the next to enter the room, says to me:
'He must be forgiven. He was suffering too much.’

Forgiven? For what? What a bizarre thought! Now that I have grasped everything, I feel nothing. I go into the courtyard, I say to Marinette, who has lifted Maman from the ground:

'It is over. Come along!'

Marinette enters, erect, pale, and looks glancingly in the dire-tion of the bed. She cannot breathe, opens the top of her bodice.

She is able to weep. She says, referring to Maman:
'Don't let her in. She is out of her mind'

We both stand there. He is lying on his back, legs outstretched, the top of his body inclined, head back, mouth and eyes open.

Between his legs, his rifle; his walking stick between the bed and the wall: his hands, empty, have let go of both stick and rifle.

They are still warm, relaxed. A little above the waist, a black place, resembling a small burnt-out fire.

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