“That we cannot rise equal to situations when we are in them — that is the tragedy of life.”
― A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
― A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
“Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous... I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.
Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger.”
― A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger.”
― A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
“It's your father's fault that the curse got placed and the place got cursed in the first place.”
―
―
“Things I forgot to tell you:
That I love you, and that when I awake in the morning I use my intelligence to discover more ways of appreciating you.
That when June comes back she will love you more because I have loved you. There are new leaves on the tip and climax of your already overrich head.
That I love you.
That I love you.
That I love you.
I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That’s what love does to intelligent women. They cannot write letters anymore.”
― A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
That I love you, and that when I awake in the morning I use my intelligence to discover more ways of appreciating you.
That when June comes back she will love you more because I have loved you. There are new leaves on the tip and climax of your already overrich head.
That I love you.
That I love you.
That I love you.
I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That’s what love does to intelligent women. They cannot write letters anymore.”
― A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953
Noodleflakes’s 2025 Year in Books
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