My Room Janry
16th 1883
My dear heart there are times in the lives of us
all whencalm contemplation is no longer possible. When our senses
our passions carry us away with wonderful force and
little discretion to the minds. I am – this night-
under such an influence, so afraid am I of my
self that I think best to discuss the most quiet of
subjects and easy of topics. Shall I? – Well _ the
weather! the weather _ it is so much better and brighter
and fair. Indeed, I enjoy this kind of weather
very much indeed. The sky is so clear and pretty,
the sea so smooth and sparkling, the air so
balmy and sleepy; the seal-gulls’ twitter so
melodious – well no, not exactly that - not ever-
thing is charming and I am so happy and
content in my love for you. My earnest, honest,
calm, fierce, absorbing love for darling old dear
Elise. I wish I had her far closer to me here that
I could feed my hungry lips upon her cheeks
and mouth. That I could look deep for the secrets
of her heart in those blue eyes of hers. That
I could have whispered in my ears the one word
I yearn, yearn, yearn to gather from her lips.
Then my wife, would I wind my strong arms
about you_ Can I not hold tight?_link my
fingers behind you_hold you! Yes and Kiss
your dear face my love a thousand times_ can
I? Will I ever? As certain as you breathe if
You are as I Know you are. Won’t I make love
to you_when we are married? I wonder if you
will ever tire of me. The quiet, stilly hours_
when each close wrapped in the other’s tight
embrace_ our hears hot beating against each
the others hotter breasts_ our lips seeking kisses
warm and true_my wife_my wife Elise
I must’nt write anymore_do you know why?
Goodnight and God bless and keep you ever.
That's "our hearTs hot beating," right? I think this letter comes close to substituting for his presence, doesn't it? Daring stuff. Maybe this is why she broke up the engagement? It's amazing how real he becomes, how this document shrinks the time between when it was written and the present in which we are reading it. I'd also point out that this guy is NOT someone who earns his living as a writer and therefore unlike most we have studied so far. This letter reminds me of poor H.D. Thoreau, who told a woman he was about to meet for a date that he felt the "savage" inside him coming out occasionally. The date was canceled.
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