I just bought this book of love letters called "A Literate Passion" and I strongly, strongly recommend it to anyone who may read this and is currently breathing. Despite the fact that Henry Miller is a right ugly cheating dickwad and Anais herself is a beautiful one, the passion between them is intoxicating. I can't put it down. I can't help it.
"I lived it with the consciousness of the poet, mind you, not the consciousness the dead-formula-making psychoanalysts would like to put their clinical fingers on--on, not that, no, a consciousness of acute senses... We went to the edge, with our two imaginations. We died together."
"And today, in the most precious good health, I had a very languorous, pleasurable sensations of aches in my arms-- from holding you so tightly."