Félix Fénéon (or the SUICIDES JUST BECAUSE): 
- A sexagenarian, Mr. Bone, neighbour of Andigné ( Sarthe ), drunk, had beaten so hard his maid that he was going to be prosecuted. Angered, he hanged himself.
- Before jumping into the Seine , where he died, Mr. Doucrain wrote in his note pad: "Pardon me, father. I love you very much".
- Laville, resident in Fournier (Ardèche), lay down, put the muzzle of the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger with a string. Dead.
- At eighty, Mrs. Saout, neighbour of Lambézellec (Finisterre) began to fear that death would forget her; her daughter being out of house, she hanged herself.
- In the night, Blandine Guérin, neighbour of Vaucé ( Sarthe ), stripped on the stairs and naked as the wall of a school, went and drowned her in the well. 
- A man in the thirties has committed suicide in his hotel room in Mâcon. "Do not look for my name", he wrote.
- In a hotel in Lille , Mr. Hallynch, resident in Ypres , hanged himself for reasons, as per a letter he left, that would be known very soon.
- For a fifth time, Cuvillier, fisher of Marines, has poisoned himself, and this time it has been definite.

Félix Fénéon (or SUICIDES FOR LOVE):
- Acid nitric mixed with a good dose of laudanum is the potion taken by Mr. Malauzet, neighbour of Montrouge, when he discovered that his wife cheated on him.
- Alexandre Daubat, forty eight, stonecutter in Villejuif, could not get over his wife leaving him. He hanged himself in the garden.  
- Louis Tiratoïvsky mortally wounded Mrs. Brécourt in Aubervilliers and commited suicide. Love.
- At knowing to be abandoned by his wife, Mr. Bassot, resident of La Garenne-Colombes , tried to choke himself on charcoal. He is dying in Beaujon.
- The photographer Jochim Berthoud could not console himself of the death of his wife. He killed himself at Fontenay-sous-Bois .
- Battered by love, the gendarme Léonce-Paul Isnard hanged himself in the kitchen of the barracks at Draguignan.
- The sailor Renaud has committed suicide in Toulon with his mistress. His last wish: the same coffin, or at least the same grave.
- Look, I won't bother you anymore! Said Mr. Sormet, native of Vincennes , to his wife and her lover, and shot out his brains.

Félix Fénéon (or THOSE THINGS OF LIFE):
- Impossible to burst the safe of the horticulturalist Poitevin, of Clamart. The spiteful thieves put his house on fire.
- The Mayor Filain (High Saone ) has been dismissed for having placed back into the school, besides other fiery blessed, an image of God,
- The metalworker and lathe operator Maurice Planchon has been run over by a train at Clamart's station. He is in a very bad state.
- At the Trianon, a visitor has stripped and has gone to bed in the imperial bed. There are doubts of him being, as he says, Napoleon IV.
- Believing to recognize yesterday his aggressors of Monday, Mister Liester, neighbour of Clichy , fired. Of course, a passerby (Mister Bardet) received the bullet.
- At five in the morning, Mister P. Bourget was approached in the Fondary Street by two men. One took out his right eye, the other the left one.
- Derécu and Cosoas, the why is unknown, stabbed in Le Havre , in the middle of the street, Gaston Provost.
- A merchant of Saint-Gaudens surprised in Boussens his wife embracing a barber. He fired. The lover was hurt; the loved one fled.

Reflection about the ideal style for this diary: never to write more then three lines of text per day and photograph, as The three lines novels of Félix Fénéon. I have selected some of them for the next days. I don't like the boring and I get excited everyday with what I write. Some friends have told me I am extremely boring. What worries me more is being heavy. I don't bear the heavies, neither the bores. Maybe I don't bear myself, though not so, because the truth is I cannot avoid listening to me and having myself in great esteem. Fénéon was not heavy. Nor boring. He was a great artist; also a bit of an anarchist in his youth. Me, neither one thing nor the other. And not even young. It's early (in the morning), I look through my large window and see the earth white from the cold, so much so that my soul shrinks. Today I won't get out as long the cold does not go away. More about the diary (I just thought about it yesterday): I would like everyday to be like a song: the texts, the lyric, the photograph, the music. And me, a Mariachi; they, at least, are on the Representative List of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, and not I, because we heavies are terribly tangible. Also the bores.
P.S. Proposal for an exercise of literary creation mode Félix Fénéon: first, establish who the thief on this photograph is. Once localized, build a novel of three lines with her as protagonist. 

The last theatre play (I only see two or three a year) was a magnificent spectacle, in a superb set and scenery. It was splendidly played and intellectually stimulating. I left with red hands from applauding with enthusiasm and without reserve. I enjoyed it. It was Traps by Friedrich Dürrenmatt. This author, of whom I won't speak, simply because I don't know him sufficiently, and of whom I have some half read and almost forgotten books as The Assignment, or Once a Greek, has always extremely interested me. One of his sentences "caught" on the fly in the play and said by one of its characters: "...those who believe they have lived only what happened to them..."