i read the letters of my dear henry to his friend and lover nin.

and i read with steady excited eyes

such beautiful letters, written in stolen moments, on 3am kitchen tables, in noisy paris cafes

and i think to myself,

"my god"

my god, what it would have been to receive such letters

feverish letters

feverish

i have received beautiful letters

sad letters, quiet letters

letters of confusion and bruised knuckled hands

but what it must have been to receive feverish letters, full of life and desire!

she must have found herself dizzy with them

pressed them to her lips, her just-closed eyelids

hidden them in pillow cases and the tops of her stockings

i would, if i received them

kept them close to my skin, traced the script, the creases of the pages

dipped the edges, the corners into wide mouthed wine glasses and licked the drops off with half-lidded eyes.

and now i sit here in this empty house, slow sadness-filled cello all around me, all over me

and i am not sad, nor am i pulled apart

but i am.. longing.

"...i put on my courduroy trousers tonight and i saw they were stained. but i can't for the life of me associate the stain with this princess in louveciennes who holds court with guitarists and poets and tenors and critics. i didn't try very hard to get the stain off. i saw you coming to the washroom and laying your head on my shoulder. i can't see you writing 'an unprofessional study.'

this is a little drunken, anais. i am saying to myself "here is the first woman with whom i can be absolutely sincere." i remember your saying--"you could fool me. i wouldn't know it." when i walk along the boulevards and think of that. i can't fool you--and yet i would like to. i mean that i can never be absolutely loyal--it's not in me. i love women, or life, too much--which it is, i don't know. but laugh, anais, i love to hear you laugh. you are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance--no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. i love you for that. and what makes you do that--love? oh, it is beautiful to love and be free at the same time.

i don't know what i expect of you, but it is something in the way of a miracle. i am going to demand everything of you--even the impossible, because you encourage it. you are really strong. i like even your deceit, your treachery. it seems aristocratic to me. (does "aristocratic" sound wrong in my mouth?)

yes, anais, i was thinking how i could betray you, but i can't. i want you. i want to undress you, vulgarize you a bit--ah, i don't know what i am saying. i am a little drunk because you are not here. i would like to clap my hands and voila--anais! i want to own you, use you. i want to fuck you, teach you things. no, i don't appreciate you--god forbid! perhaps i even want to humiliate you a little--why, why? why don't i get down on my knees and just worship you? i can't. i love you laughingly.

do you like that?"

--henry miller, march 21, 1932, clichy.