Book: Letters to Vera
Quotes of Book: Letters to Vera
How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours - with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it - and can't recall a single trifle I've lived through without regret - so sharp! - that we haven't lived through it together - whether it's the most, the most personal, intransmissible - or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road - you see what I mean, my happiness?
And I know: I can't tell you anything in words - and when I do on the phone then it comes out completely wrong. Because with you one needs to talk wonderfully, the way we talk with people long gone… in terms of purity and lightness and spiritual precision… You can be bruised by an ugly diminutive - because you are so absolutely resonant - like seawater, my lovely.
I swear - and the inkblot has nothing to do with it - I swear by all that's dear to me, all I believe in - I swear that I have never loved before as I love you, - with such tenderness - to the point of tears - and with such a sense of radiance. book-quoteMy delightful, my love, my life, I don't understand anything: how can you not be with me? I'm so infinitely used to you that I now feel myself lost and empty: without you, my soul. You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed-you put a glint of happiness on everything-always different: sometimes you can be smoky-pink, downy, sometimes dark, winged-and I don't know when I love your eyes more-when they are open or shut. It's eleven p.m. now: I'm trying with all the force of my soul to see you through space; my thoughts plead for a heavenly visa to Berlin via air . . . My sweet excitement . . .Today I can't write about anything except my longing for you. I'm gloomy and fearful: silly thoughts are swarming-that you'll stumble as you jump out of a carriage in the underground, or that someone will bump into you in the street . . . I don't know how I'll survive the week.My tenderness, my happiness, what words can I write for you? How strange that although my life's work is moving a pen over paper, I don't know how to tell you how I love, how I desire you. Such agitation-and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine-mounds of happiness. And I am floating with you, in you, aflame and melting-and a whole life with you is like the movement of clouds, their airy, quiet falls, their lightness and smoothness, and the heavenly variety of outline and tint-my inexplicable love. I cannot express these cirrus-cumulus sensations.When you and I were at the cemetery last time, I felt it so piercingly and clearly: you know it all, you know what will happen after death-you know it absolutely simply and calmly-as a bird knows that, fluttering from a branch, it will fly and not fall down . . . And that's why I am so happy with you, my lovely, my little one. And here's more: you and I are so special; the miracles we know, no one knows, and no one loves the way we love.What are you doing now? For some reason I think you're in the study: you've got up, walked to the door, you are pulling the door wings together and pausing for a moment-waiting to see if they'll move apart again. I'm tired, I'm terribly tired, good night, my joy. Tomorrow I'll write you about all kinds of everyday things. My love. book-quoteMy sweetheart, my love, my love, my love-do you know what-all the happiness of the world, the riches, power and adventures, all the promises of religions, all the enchantment of nature and even human fame are not worth your two letters. It was a night of horror, terrible anguish, when I imagined that your undelivered letter, stuck at some unknown post office, was being destroyed like a sick little stray dog . . . But today it arrived-and now it seems to me that in the mailbox where it was lying, in the sack where it was shaking, all the other letters absorbed, just by touching it, your unique charm and that that day all Germans received strange wonderful letters-letters that had gone mad because they had touched your handwriting. The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation-a week's, ten days'-what does it matter? since my whole life belongs to you. I wake at night and know that you are together with me,-I sense your sweet long legs, your neck through your hair, your trembling eyelashes-and then such happiness, such simmering bliss follows me in my dreams that I simply suffocate . . . book-quote
