The complete frenzy. And then he stayed inside me. He lay over me, and after a moment he began again.
Then he fell asleep, laying his full length over me. And when he awakened he said, “I thought I was far from you, and now I find myself in your arms; it’s so beautiful.”
After violent sensuality, tenderness, more kisses, full and sensual.
Then we go out to shop, and he cooks the dinner as I do, in ten minutes, and enjoys it. And after dinner he lies over me again, at rest, tender, relaxed. A full, complete cycle.
And I am relaxed, natural. I feel the plentitude, the sweetness, the warmth of love. I am happy. We can talk together. We can enjoy together.
Now he is impatient to leave.
Such a being: so well balanced, a poet, mystic, musician, sensualist. He can win me, keep me, hold me if he wants to. He could stop all these flights and divisions. He is more dynamic than Carter.
I love his activity, his kindness.
Whenever he comes, because I think about his fiery intensity, I am surprised to see him slender, delicate; one expects a very big man.
I am happy, happy.
APRIL 20, 1947
Then, after this merging, Rupert vanishes for a few days. Goes here and there, sees his ex-wife, his young girl, does not call, does not say when we will meet again, volatizes, and I feel anxiety. About the girl, Martha, he had said, “I cannot consider her seriously. She is too young, confused, under her mother’s domination, a Christian Scientist, rich and spoiled. You say I’m in love with her? I don’t know. There is no physical attraction. I think of her as a friend. I would have liked her to bear my children.”
(That is how I used to write about Hugo!)
His need of stability—I am his passion. He probably does not feel sure of me.
Anxiety.
And the next day Carter came.
Now Carter I trust. Carter, I feel, loves me deeply. He telephones, he is there. With him, even though he belongs to Nancy, I feel that we are bound, that he will remain close, that he needs and wants continuity. No leaps, no vanishings, no elusiveness.
As does Gore, he settles within me, he nestles, he flows.
I said, “When Hugo and I first came to your house I felt an affinity, a closeness. We talked so easily.”
The desire grows. We work together, awaiting the kiss at the end. The moment our bodies touch I feel his desire aroused. Intoxication. Drunkenness.
We separate.
It hurts.
He fears a split of his being, expansion, and I know all the pain this causes.
Then that same evening I received five yards of luxuriant, fire-red brocade from Bill in Korea wrapped around a secret box, which must have been sent before he received Children of the Albatross, in which I mention such a secret Chinese box as an image of his character. This came to me as an omen: he will like my writing. It will not separate us (I have been anxious). And the next morning I received his letter:
“Cherie, reading the book and comprehending what lay beneath it made me understand you and love you even more. With my heart I say those words. My heart was deeply moved throughout the book.”
Happiness . . . happiness . . . happiness . . . Fullness . . . fullness . . . fullness . . . richness . . .
I knew what Carter felt, but I knew it more by his keenness to see me when Nancy, fearing me, began to withdraw from him. Vibration . . . vibration . . . So sad. I know I bring sadness, conflict to Carter, and yet I know too that I can unleash great music in him, that I am necessary to his growth, that his childish marriage is not enough, that I arouse, shake, stir him to greater things. I know the music in me and my words fire him. I know I am for him what Henry and June Miller were for me, who took me out of a small world into a vaster, more terrible and more magnificent realm.
Oh, Carter, the human treacheries for the sake of greater evolutions. Touching me is another Carter who could not be born out of Nancy—a deeper and wilder Carter—born today.
Last night I had a small farewell party for me. I invited Nancy and Carter. Carter came alone. The cell of the dream makes everything wonderful, transfigured.
I want to dance with him because it means holding him and melting together. This melting together, melting.
Oh Rupert, why don’t you stay close? He has these airy spaces he leaps into. In his little car, he is far away. Cold Springs. Mount Kisko. His ex-wife Janie Lloyd Jones and Martha and friends I don’t know.
Because Carter is faithful to Nancy I trust him, because I know he is caught not by a whim, a casual fantasy, but a deep feeling.
Once I wove a vast fire out of Henry and Gonzalo. Now, again, I feel a vast love encompassing very similar men, stemming from the source of Bill Pinckard.
Oh, Rupert, take all of me, hold me, hold me, hold me. I said to you wildly in the middle of possession: “I belong to you,” and you tightened your grip exultantly, proudly. You too are afraid now?
You said, “We create our own sea!”
PART TWO OF MY LIFE
I feel loved
I feel united with the world
I feel free
Last night at the party I felt beloved.
Pablo said, “Oh, Anaïs, I’m jealous—I feel terribly jealous that someone is taking you away.”
Woody Parrish-Martin, Stanley Haggart . . .
“I will miss you.”
Friends, warm, devoted.
It took me years to conquer hell, to gain faith and peace.
My body is blooming.
I do not feel responsibility for others. I have not made Hugo’s gloom or Gonzalo’s prison. In fact, I fought too long to lighten Hugo and to free Gonzalo.
Friday night both Hugo and I were drained, exhausted. Hugo made dinner solemnly, and sat stagnant. I, equally tired, become more acutely humorous, bubbling, for visitors. I told Hugo I am traveling with Thurema.
NEW YORK, APRIL 23, 1947
Last entry before the trip. Now the diary goes into the vault. On Monday I leave with Rupert. Staff said my anxiety that this trip should not happen is a projection of my own guilt at deserting Hugo, Gore, Gonzalo, Carter, all my friends. The guilt is a myth, he warned. The only traces left of the old illness are anxiety, fear of catastrophe, of pain, of tragedy.
I became tense, tense again.
Suddenly there is no time for all my relationships. No time to see Albert, no time for Edward Graeffe (Chinchilito), no time for Guy Blake pleading over the telephone. One visit from Richard Wright and he falls in love with me and calls me today and says, “Come to France with me.”
Henry Miller writes that he awaits my visit impatiently.
Carter: I keep time for him. We work together. But oh, the sweet torment, the sweet torment. The way he lies on the couch. I realize he is not good for me; he is not violent enough. He is gentle, yielding. He is not daring. He wants the kiss, but I have to lead. It is not good.
It is I who must act.
He responds. I am afraid to lose my control. I want him so much. His mouth, his eyes, his beautiful expression.
He is too quiet for me.