I have learned from Henry to make notes, to expand, not to brood secretly, to move, to write every day, to do, to say instead of meditating, not to conceal the breaking up of myself under emotion. He arouses tremendous strength in me. I write against and with him. I live against and with him. I am conscious of his life. I feel rich with it. His letters and the notes on the back of them, his wealth of activity, give me a feeling of warmth and fervor which I love, a feeling of expansion, of ampleness, plenitude. I could not live any longer in an empty world. I must have much to love, much to
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