Anaïs, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that’s in me now. Was all this so wonderful 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 this could go 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.

Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin, August 14, 1932, in: A Literate Passion. Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller 1932-1953.

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