This is a love letter for an ordinary man.

Miller

in 1932 the great writer Henry Miller wrote a love letter to his lover

Cuban diary writer Anaizenin

translator: Childe Chongya

the original author: Henry Miller

1932, the Cuban diary writer Anaizenin [1] and the influential novelist Henry Miller (Henry Miller) met for the first time in Paris. A few months later, although both of them were married, they began a passionate relationship. This relationship lasted for many years, during which countless passionate love letters were produced. The following love letter written by Miller in August 1932 is an excellent example. The letter was written shortly after Miller to Ning was a guest at the home of Loubouchana [2]. The following is a letter from Henry Miller to Anezenin:

August 14, 1932

Arnez:

Don't expect me to stay sane. We don't have to worry about what a wise attitude is. There is no doubt that we live a married life in Louisiana. I am gone, but your shadow follows me like a shadow; I walk and swim in your purified, poisonous sea of Andalusia blood. Everything I do, say, and think has something to do with this marriage. In my opinion, you are the hostess of your own house, a gloomy Moor, a black woman with a white body; my eyes walk all over your skin, woman. I don't understand how I can continue to live without you: these gaps are tantamount to death to me. What will happen to you when Hugo [5] comes back? Am I still in your heart? I can't imagine you moving around on him and doing what you and I did. Your legs close together. Your weakness. Your sweet but ill-intentioned acquiescence. You are as tame as a bird. With me, you become a woman. I was almost stunned by this. You are by no means more than thirty years old, you are a thousand years old.

when I came home, the passion was still burning in my heart, like smoking wine. It is no longer a passion for your flesh and blood, but a complete desire for you, a hunger to swallow you up. I read about suicide and murder; I understand. I think I want to kill myself. Somehow, I think: it is shameful to do nothing, it is shameful to wait for the right time, it is shameful to understand it from a philosophical point of view, and it is shameful to maintain a wise attitude. Where are the times when men duel and die for a glove or a glance at a woman? (a hand gramophone plays the terrible aria from Madame Butterfly: "one day he will come!" )

I still hear you in the kitchen Sing, some kind of out-of-tune, back-and-forth Cuban soul. I know it's a pleasure for you to cook, and your cooking is the best we've ever had. I know: you'll get scalded, but you don't complain. Sitting in the restaurant listening to your busy voice, seeing your skirt like a thousand-eyed goddess dancing, I feel extremely calm and happy.

Anez, I thought I had just loved you; but nothing is more certain than the certainty in my heart at the moment. Is it all because of its short-lived and stolen characteristics that all this is so wonderful? Are we performing for each other and showing each other? Am I even less like me? Or is it more like me? And you? Is it crazy to believe that this relationship will continue? When and where do we start to get bored? To find your flaws, weaknesses, and minefields, I study you. I didn't find anything. I found nothing. This shows that I am deeply in love: blind, blind. I will always be blind! Now they are singing "Heaven and the Sea" in Qiao Kangda [6]. )

I imagine you playing those records over and over again-Hugo records. Tell me about love [7]. This double life, double taste, double happiness, and sadness. You must be trapped by it. I know everything, but I can't stop it from happening. I wish I was the one to put up with all this. I know you're an eye-opener right now. Some things you will no longer believe, some gestures you will not repeat, some sorrows, doubts, and fears you will no longer experience. There is a well-intentioned criminal enthusiasm in your tenderness and cruelty: neither remorse nor revenge, neither sorrow nor guilt. A state of being. Nothing can save you from the abyss, except for some high expectation, some belief, some kind of happiness you have experienced, which you can regain if you want it.

I have been taking notes all morning, scrutinizing my life records, thinking about where to write and how to write; what I see is no longer any book, but a lifetime of books. But I didn't start writing. The walls are empty: I took everything off the wall before I saw you. It's like I'm ready to leave forever. The places where our heads leaned against the wall were exposed. When there was lightning and thunder, I lay in bed and experienced the wildest dreams: we went to Seville [8], then to Fez [9], Capri [10], and finally to Havana. When we travel everywhere, there is always a typewriter and many books; you are always by my side; the way you look at me is always the same. People say we will be miserable, we will regret it, but we are happy, we always laugh, we sing heartily. We speak Spanish, French, Arabic, and Turkish; people accept us everywhere; they sprinkle our path with flowers.

as I said, it was a wild dream. But this is the dream I want to make come true. My life and literature are included, love is the only generator. You have given me a thousand kinds of love with your fickle soul, become my firm anchor in the storm, and become my warm home at the ends of the earth. In the morning, we continue what we left unfinished last night. When you wake up, again and again, you stick to yourself and live the rich and colorful life you want. The more you stick to yourself, the more you want and need me. Your voice is huskier and deeper, your eyes are darker, your blood is thicker, and your body is more rounded. Your low eyebrows are so sexy; your urgent needs are so bossy. You are crueler than ever-a conscious, wayward cruelty. And I am insatiably greedy for this joy.

Heng

[1] Ana ï s Nin, (1903-1977) is an American writer born in a Hispanic-Cuban family and born and raised in France. She published more than 60 years of diaries (from the age of 11 to shortly before her death), novels, critical studies, essays, short stories, and erotic works of art.

[2] (Louveciennes) is a French commune located in the western suburbs of Paris.

[3] Andalucia (Spanish: Andalusia) is one of the 17 autonomous regions that make up Spain. The capital is Seville.

[4] the Moors were Muslim residents of the medieval Iberian Peninsula (present-day Spain and Portugal), the Maghreb, and West Africa. Historically, the Moors mainly referred to the Islamic conquerors in the Iberian Peninsula. The Moors (collectively referred to as Muslims in West Asia and North Africa) once ruled a province in Spain and named it Andalus, from which Andalusia got its name.

[5] Hugo (Hugo, Ian Hugo Ian Hugo, formerly known as Hugh Parker Guiler, 1898-1985) is the husband of Anezenin. He is a skilled sculptor and filmmaker.

[6] "Joe Conda" (La Gioconda) is an opera by Italian playwright Poncaili (Ponchielli) in four acts.

[7] "tell me about Love" (Parlez moi d amour) is a famous song written by French composer Lenoir (Jean Lenoir) in 1930.

[8] Silver (Serville) is a town in the province of Earl-Loire, France.

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[9] Fè s, the fourth largest city in the Kingdom of Morocco, is located in the Sais Plain east of Rabat, the capital of the country, and is a famous ancient capital of the country. Karin University in the city is the oldest existing university in the world and is an institution of higher learning in the Arab and Islamic world.

[10] A small island in the southern Gulf of Naples, Italy, (Capri), Capri. It has been famous for its beautiful scenery since the Roman Republic and is a famous tourist attraction.