#corrrespondence

My sweet, I must stop. I will write to you again soon, because I would still like to tell you an enormous lot. Above all that I have a huge and terrible longing for you.

If you were here — and Oh that you were,  we need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language — I try to bring you nearer, I chase the weeks away till they are quite departed, and fancy you have come, and I am on my way through the green lane to meet you, and my heart goes scampering so, that I have much ado to bring it back again, and learn it to be patient...

Good Night—Where shall the kiss — be ?

I’m really crazy—I wish I were—they’d lock me up—I wouldn’t have to think—anything that’s sane—

If you believe that your skimpy letters, written occasionally, without a lively and true spirit of presence in anything you wrote, did not give me a reason (not to scold, because I never did that) to feel obliged to express my keen pain at such undeserved behavior: what do you want me to tell you ? I must be wrong to feel as I feel, and you must be right to write to me as you write.  After this, I don't know anymore what to tell you. My weakness is so great that I feel really finished, and I don't even know how to get up again from this bed.

… no doubt much that came to me was great, rare, and pure, perhaps even enriching and inspiring. But it came to me, whereas here you were calmly and majestically a companion; you were party to that something from which destiny is ever turning me away !

She wrote to me !.. I do not see her at my side; I do not hear her speaking; but she has written to me, she has thought of me ....

I could never deliberately, consciously, do you the least injury. You can walk over me, if you like - if that makes you feel better, stronger. But I won't walk over you.