It’s a huge Carthusian monastery, stuck down between rocks and sea, where you may imagine me, without white gloves or haircurling, as pale as ever, in a cell with such doors as Paris never had for gates. The cell is the shape of a tall coffin, with an enormous dusty vaulting, a small window…Bach, my scrawls and waste pater – silence – you could scream- there would still be silence. Indeed, I write to you from a strange place. – describing his “cell” at Majorca