holidays with books. lover elsewhere. but lovers present. love present.
bliss and happiness and the sincerity and beauty of your handwriting next to me.
The dead writers:
Miller to Nin: “Come quickly then and screw me. Shoot with me. Wrap your legs around me. Warm me.” (Miller to Nin, beginning of spring 1932)
Nin to Miller: “Things I forgot to tell you: (…) That I love you, and that when I awake in the morning I use my intelligence to discover more ways of appreciating you.” (June, 1932)
feverish love, also for one woman in their middle.
and within their elaborate love letters admiration for antidemocrats like spengler (who met with hitler in bayreuth, where else, in 1933, refused him, fell for mussolini). crude, but in a sense logic, fusion of attraction to radical and racist, also sexist thoughts with high praise for tender literature. how does all that go together? where is the link of ‘belesenheit’ and conservatism? how could chamberlain read a lot of the world’s literature and still produce destructive and influential thoughts on paper? is it naive to believe in a potential goodness coming from phantasy?
and the writers of these beautiful, wild letters? both of them children of their time? but they should have been visionary, they were in some respects, in a lot of them not.
(feverish love, your absence.)