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

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.

It

said you were going away and I said "Sure, go!" but I didn't know what I was saying

o.

It seemed like running away from something instead of going to something.

I know it's only for a short while, but when one takes a voyage it always raises a question of other voyages—final voyages.

It makes one inexpressibly and beautifully sad. I sat in the cafe and [. . .]

scarcely realizing it, I was weeping. But that was momentary.

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