‘I have seen romanticism outlast the realistic. I have seen men forget the beautiful women they have possessed, forget the prostitutes, and remember the first woman they idolized, the woman they never could have. The women who aroused them romantically holds them. I see the tenacious yearning in Eduardo. Hugo will never be healed of me. Henry can never really love again after loving June.
When I talk about her, Henry says, ‘What a lovely way you have of putting things.’
‘Perhaps it is an evasion of the facts’
He says to me exactly what I wrote some time ago: I submit to life and then I find beautiful explanations for my act. I make the piece fit into the creative weaving.
‘You and June wanted to embalm me,’ I say.
‘Because you seem so utterly fragile.’
I dream of a new faithfulness, with stimulation from others, imaginative living, and my body only for Hugo.
I lie. That day in the cafe, sitting with Henry, seeing his hand tremble, hearing his words, I was moved. It was madness to read him my notes, but he incited me; it was madness to drink and to answer his questions while staring into his face, as I have never dared to look at any man. We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.’
from ‘Henry and June’, by Anais Nin