A literate passion : letters of Anais Nin and Henry Miller, 1932–1953

I believe you are destined to describe life, to give only your intoxicated moods, your enjoyment. I believe Bradley was not so far wrong when he praised above all things your descriptions, your ecstasies.

Wondering today why—if we are all haunted by our first love—if it isn't only because we have not possessed it. We should all, at some time or other, live conjugally, sexually, etc.

with our chosen first love and we would quickly be cured of our obsession. It's only the lure of the unattained

Wondering today why—if we are all haunted by our first love—if it isn't only because we have not possessed it.

Perhaps it is a realization of the futility of altering men or things. That ripe speculative attitude which accepts life for what it is, and demands nothing more. Only with full consciousness, not out of inertia, or indifference.

while. I drink in and am suffocated by all the new sensations.

As I said to you once, it is a marvel to see how Lawrence moved from place to place, always writing. And you do it too. The m

moment I get away from my accustomed place, see strange things, breathe different airs, I cease being fo

almost wish winter were here, with its artificial cerebral stimulation

I figure I've had the trip! Been all over France again in my imagination

—and feel quite sure that I had a better time of it anticipating my joys than realizing them. Anyway, I wasn't joyful—and I guess that's why I didn't go.

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