Petit Wasmes, the Borinage Dear Theo, I am having trouble writing to you. My thoughts are loud but disorderly; I write through a cloud of sadness and fury. You are not the same any longer, I keep hearing your voice say, and then a thousand other words jump in. I approach the desk with my pen and paper again and again, tearing up start after start to this letter. When we last saw each other—that is, before your recent August visit—it was soon before I left Brussels for the Borinage; I expect you remember how excited I was, after all that failed study in Amsterdam and useless training in Brussels, to finally be on my way to mining country. It was December 18, just nine months ago, when I finally arrived by train from the capital, the fare paid with the last money Father had given me when we parted the week before. For most of the ride, the view from my window was of a long procession of fields and peasant cottages, the sky over all of them gray and uniform. I sat back in my seat and let the scenery soothe me, trying to let my eyes lose focus.
