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were poor sport indeed compared to this crashing open of the very heart of Catholicism. To be sure the Catholics the world over will protest; what more can they do? The artists the world over will weep ...... but to what effect since the aim is to overcome with barbaric might a mere handful of supernal right.

November 8th. Tomalino has sold us some good olive-oil soap that as a peasant he was able to procure. But now that we have the soap, hot water is lacking. Inconveniences of this sort make Natalie angry. She is spoilt. She has never known what real want means and for her sake I hope that the war will never oblige us to face it. Poverty is an old acquaintance of mine. During seven years of student life I had no warm clothes, no solid food and my precarious pittance was insufficient to pay for what was essential to my work. But I was young and buoyed up by enthusiasm. I saw myself as belonging to a brotherhood of artists. When living in the Latin quarters of Paris, I remember being awakened at dawn by distant church bells and, like a happy monk, I would get up and dress in a fireless studio and pass the whole day and evening working in the stale air of a dirty classroom eat the poorest of food and in worn shoes trudge about the cold and muddy streets of Paris. These were real hardships yet, warmed by the inner fire, I was impervious to it all.

 November 10th. At eleven o'clock last night the alarm sounded and bombs began falling almost at once. "These are anti-aircraft guns,"