August 14, 1932

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing compared to 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 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!

...I say this is a wild dream- but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings continuing where we left off; resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich, varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility, willfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.

-Henry Miller in a letter to Anais Nin