Love Note Day: Three Sexy Love Letters From Famous Artists & Authors

Love Note Day: Three Sexy Love Letters From Famous Artists & Authors

On September 26, we celebrate Love Note Day, a day to pay tribute to your amor with a note, letter or scribble of your affections. 

For literary and art icons like Henry MillerPablo Neruda and Frida Kahlo, capturing the true immensity of their passion and commitment was near-impossible. Still, they left us with some of the most beautiful, masterly odes to love of all time — read them below: 

PLUS: 9 Quotes About Love From Our Favorite Latino Authors


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Cubana Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller met in Paris in 1932, and, despite the fact that both were already married, they began a passionate love affair that lasted for decades. They never married, but they left behind stacks of correspondence. Their letters have been immortalized in the book A Literate Passion: Letters Of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, 1932-1953. (Amazon, $12.99) Below, read a portion of a particularly passionate note from Henry to Anaïs: 

"Anaïs: Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes — you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you — these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, trecherous acquiscence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old — you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly — 'some day he'll come!')....

....Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on?" (Read the letter in full)

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