Henry ja June

Life is not rational; it is just mad and full of pain.

The extravagance of Dostoevsky's language has released both of us. He was a portentous author for Henry.

Henry gives me the world. June gave me madness. God, how grateful I am to find two beings I can love, who are generous to me in a way I cannot explain.

He thinks my mind is always in control. He does not know what madness I am capable of.

He walks inside of Proust’s symphonies, of Gide’s insinuations, of Cocteau’s opium enigmas, of Valery’s silences; he walks into suggestivity, into spaces; into the illuminations of Rimbaud. And I walk with him. Tonight I love him, for the beautiful way he has given me the earth.

I revolve around your richness of being.

I don't hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration.

Henry makes notes on me. He registers all I say. We are both registering, each with different sensors. The life of writers is another life.

I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.

Writing is not, for us, an art, but breathing. After our first encounter I breathed some notes, accents of recognition, human admissions. Henry was still stunned, and I was breathing off the unbearable, willing joy.