Цитаты из книги Henry and 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.

I am trapped, between the beauty of June and the genius of Henry. In a different way, I am devoted to both, a part of me goes out to each of them.

"You say, 'Gide has mind, Dostoyevsky has the other thing, and it is what Dostoyevsky has that really matters.'

To Henry: "Please understand, Henry, that I'm in full rebellion against my own mind, that when I live, I leave by impulse, by emotion, by white heat. June understood that. My mind didn't exist when we walked insanely through Paris, oblivious to people, to time, to place, to others. It didn't exist when I first read Dostoyevsky in my hotel room and laughed and cried together and couldn't sleep, and didn't know where I was.

June is a storyteller. She is constantly telling stories about her life that are inconsequential. I tried at first to connect them into a whole, but then I surrendered to her chaos. I didn't know at the time that, like Albertine's stories, to Proust, each one was a secret key to some happening in her life which it is impossible to clarify. A lot of these stories are in Henry's novels.

I might have found a husband who loved me less exclusively, but it would not be Hugo, and whatever is Hugo, whatever Hugo is composed of, I love. We deal in different values. For his faithfulness, I give him my imagination - even my talent, if you will. I have never been satisfied with our accounts. But they must stand.

I really believe that if I were not a writer, not a creator, not an experimenter, I might have been a very faithful wife.

Henry has imagination, an animal feeling for life, the greatest power of expression, and the truest genius I have ever known.

I've met Henry Miller. He came to lunch with Richard Osborn, a lawyer I had to consult on the contract of my D. H. Lawrence book. When he first stepped out of the car and walked towards the door where I stood waiting, I saw a man I liked. In his writing he is flamboyant, virile, animal, magnificent. He's a man whom life makes drunk, I thought. He is like me.

The impetus to grow and live intensely is so powerful in me I cannot resist it. I will work, I will love my husband, but I will fulfill myself.

Вульгарность оскорбительна, но она дарит человеку свободу.