"Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing lik..." — Henry Miller
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Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever!
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We do not talk—we bludgeon one another with facts and theories gleaned from cursory…
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Give me a few days of peace in your arms—I need it terribly. I’m ragged, worn, exhausted.…
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To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth — I count that…
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Now people are books to me. I read them from cover to cover and toss them aside. I devour…