Love letters between Anais Nin and Henry Miller

Oh, Henry,
I was so upset by your letter this morning. When it was given to me all the artificially pent-up feelings overwhelmed me.
The very touch of the letter was as if you had taken me all into your arms. You know now what I felt when I read it.
You said everything that would touch and win me and I was moist, and so impatient that I am doing everything to gain a day.
This note I’m enclosing, which I wrote you last night two hours after mailing my letter, will help you to understand what is happening. Anyway, you must have received the telegram almost at the same time.
I belong to you! We’re going to have a week such as we never dreamt yet. “The thermometer will burst.”
I want to feel again the violent thumping inside of me, the rushing, burning blood,
the slow, caressing rhythm and the sudden violent pushing, the frenzy of pauses when I hear the raindrop sounds…
how it leaps in my mouth, Henry. Oh, Henry, I can’t bear to be writing you—I want you desperately,
I want to open my legs so wide, I’m melting and palpitating.
I want to do things so wild with you that I don’t know how to say them.
---------------------------------------------------

Anais:
Don't expect me to be sane anymore. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me.
I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death.
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.
I feel murderous. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time,
to take it philosophically, to be sensible.
Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance?

I still hear you singing in the kitchen. I know you're happy in the kitchen and
the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together.
I know you would scald yourself and not complain.
I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about,
your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now.
Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen?
Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you?
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.To be blind forever!

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records. The walls are completely bare.
The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested.
While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams.
We're in Seville and then in Capri and then in Havana.
We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes.
People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing.
We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild 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 and tyrannical necessity.
More cruel now than before—consciously, willfully cruel.
The insatiable delight of experience.