him, an American a little 'rustic, with an extraordinary talent as a writer. She also writes her good, I love writing, and with a great capacity for love.
Henry Miller and Anais Nin.
An intense love, capricious, durable, made of lust and friendship.
This is an excerpt from a letter he wrote to Henry, taken from "History of a passion," their letters published by Bompiani.
"... I'm very sorry to have failed you, yesterday. But, I repeat, for me it's all confusing and mysterious. I came to you in good spirits, with the intention of holding you in his arms immediately and to love you enough to die. And then, as always happens - it is not a novelty! - I put my foot in your house, and I have the exact feeling of being a host, albeit a very privileged. It is not my home, and you're not my wife. You're there, the door opened, and I always see a princess who, for some secret whim, he condescended to make me the gift of his love. I feel like a nobody. I could be any X. Everything is a gift, and I feel in the grip of a feeling stupid, and I say to myself that here is wonderful and nothing here is real, it's all a dream. And if I say this is because, knowing that I deserve a little from life, I do not deserve anything from me. And even if I talk so much about myself and doing who knows what-you-bored, probably occurs because it attempts, with the words, to fit into the reality of all that you offer me standotene there, the doorway to greet me. You do not know that much time is that, again, for me. And then I become so human that it becomes sensitive. And so it happened yesterday ... my insensitivity was delicate. I hunger for you. I wanted to tear off her clothes when I did restore the hammock, I wanted to eat you. But I stand there in front of you and chat ... But what I really wanted was to lie on the grass and lose myself with you. Yes, I continue to be naive and clumsy ... "
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