MIND: Eloquence

Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty.

Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things.

We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.

// Henry Miller

MIND: Extrusive

What a world to study, to explore, in your night face. The face of a stranger, carved out of lava, like some oceanic goddess. More mysterious with eyes closed and features sculpted out of ancestral memories. An almost barbaric look, as if you had been resurrected from some ancient city.

// Henry Miller, from a letter to Hoki Tokuda

MIND: Flighty

I see myself forever and ever as the ridiculous person, the lonely soul, the wanderer, the restless frustrated artist, the person in love with love, always in search of the absolute, always seeking the unattainable.

Stand Still Like the Hummingbird // Henry Miller

MIND: Addictive

Something in you pacifies me.
You’ve always had that power over me – part of you pacifies, another terrifies.
How do I get sick of that? I will never get sick of that.

// Henry Miller, from a letter to Anaïs Nin

MIND: Roots

I don’t lie to you.
Nor do I try to hurt you when I’m honest with you.
I’ve protected, or tried to, the best in you.
I never could promise to protect your body and soul –
nobody can promise another that.
We can only make one another strong, help each other to believe in ourselves.
He does not protect you – he makes you a slave.
You get befuddled.
You need him and he needs you – and it’s not true, it’s a lie, and you know it, and that’s the root of all your unhappiness.

// Henry Miller, from a letter to Anaïs Nin