It is over between Pablo and me.

It has been a long time coming, such a passionate thing cannot be without unpleasantness. His talent is so magnificent, all stark erotic power. I will never forget the moment I turned a corner in the National Museum to see a sketch from Les Demoiselles, and I was moved beyond all measure. But Picasso he was such a boy, always. "Look at me!" every brush stroke seemed to cry out. I am older now.

The screen does do not justice to this, but when I saw it today I was again moved. There were three side by side (this was to its left) and they seemed to me to carry the weight of the modern on their shoulders, the heavy lifting already done, only Pablo's shouting left to announce it to the world.

I walked back into the room full of Picassos next door, feeling a bit sullen, then back to the Cezannes, then back to the Picassos again. They have lovely big piece he did in 1906, in that breathless moment before Les Demoiselles, a harem of images of his beloved Fernande. But he never loved Fernande, or me. He loved only himself. I can see now what a fool I was.