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

don't want it. I won't have it.

u can walk over me, if you like—if that makes you feci better, stronger. But I won't walk over you. I get nothing from it. All the "good things"

most wonderful view. I saw the w

that I would like to go there with you some afternoon toward twilight and have dinner there with you. I thought too of your remark once about

showing you the streets—how we would think of that when it was too late. I thought of a lot of things as I climbed up the hill and then saw

like it, though. It tickles me. I laugh when I get such a letter. I laugh in a callous, delicate way. I see how things can go all haywire when we let ourselves grow too sensitive.)

Because you were weak to write that. You insult yourself when you write me that

Where does he come off then? Is he not to have his glory too? Should he not write even more ardently than me? You made him suffer. Do you want me to suffer too? So that I can write you these wonderful letters? Do you want "letters" or do you want the real live tangible imperfect and substantial me?

But that is all right. I approve of it. You should make others miserable once in a while. You have your bad moments, like all of us. You are not perfect.

that seemed crudely romantic to me.

You know damned well, I didn't need to obey orders. I could have turned around at the gate and grabbed you and said, "No, I won't go away, I'm going to stay here and love