[	Tags	|	becoming awake, bookishness, craving stars, lit, quote, reading, strange things people say, what men know about women	]
[	Current Location	|	United States, Massachusetts, Cambridge	]
[	Current Mood	|	contemplative	]
[	Current Music	|	dance or die - psychoburbia	]

At midnight last night my table was littered with notes that, unable to digest it all and frame a coherent letter, I gave up in despair and went to bed. The room has become infinitely more habitable since (after two weeks) I discovered that the light could be manipulated. I must tell you that the big coal box in my room is an object which I look at with a deal of affection. It is the best object in the room...

One of my notes says: “Correct Anaïs’ English.” Do you want me to do that, or would Hugo consider that I am encroaching on his private domain? Furthermore, and this is more important, would it “cramp your style” if I were to do so? I think it fairly important to apprise you of your errors, since you are making English your language. Nothing is more embarrassing at times, and more provocative of ridicule, than these queer twists which betray one’s ignorance of the language. I suspect you want to come as near perfection as possible in this matter; and you know I'm no stickler for grammar, syntax, commas etc. No, it is only when the meaning is distorted or the beauty marred that I would hazard a friendly counsel…

I sent a second letter to Switzerland, same address, did you get it? And did I enclose the book list I had promised? Don't be terrified by the avalanche of mail. It is a bad habit of mine, and as I can do no work with the pen it is just a way of letting off steam; Hugo, I hope, is not annoyed. Please have him say so. He must not. In any case, I am not dropping them on his desk. They arrive at Louveciennes, when commences a new life. But, I know how it can be sometimes. I should hate to have him saying to himself—"More mail from that guy? What's the meaning of all this? I hope to Christ he croaks.”

And having written this I immediately perceive that it sounds a little like having a bad conscience, which I haven't at all, my conscience being practically defunct. No, I want Hugo to like me, to trust me always, to believe in me. It’s a little harder to get at him, and then it was not he who put the first foot forward. That always makes things awkward. But damn all that, Anaïs, but it is all for Hugo too, absolutely. And if I can write freely—without fear of planting worms in the fruit, why fine. Hugo will either like me tremendously after a time, or detest me. I think he will like me. And, if I may sound just another note before finishing with this subject—you see I am extremely touchy, because I myself was so often placed in Hugo’s role; the scars never seem to heal. But between you there is understanding. That is the big victory. I am where Proust was, only with more complications, more facts, more mysteries, more terrors, more of everything, except genius. You almost make me weep with your flattering words. No, I am far from being the artist you imagine. Maybe there are in me possibilities—they have not yet come to fruition. But your friendship, your wonderful sympathy is everything....

[Henry Miller, letter to Anaïs Nin, February 12th, 1932]

Pick up the nearest book to you.
Turn to page 45.
The first sentence describes your sex life in 2012.

 Romeo:

“I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded.”

and, for kicks, my long-suffering wip novel:

“Don’t condescend.”

via snurri and matociquala