Tuesday Night. June 7, 1932.
"Anais, you have become so vital a part of me that I'm completely upside down, if this means anything. I don't know what I write- only that I love you, that I must have you exclusively, fiercely, possessively. I don't know what I want. I've got too much, I guess. You've overwhelmed me and you've spoiled me. I keep asking harder and harder things of you. I expect you to accomplish miracles. You don't know how I miss those nights we spent together- how much they meant to me. Other times you are just a phantom, a wrath. You come and you make me sick with desire, with a desire to possess you, to have you around me always, talking to me naturally, moving about as if you were a part of me."
(reading A Literate Passion- letters of Anais Nin and Henry Miller)