June wants Henry to be a Dostoevsky, but June prevents him from being one—unwillingly, instinctively. She wants him to sing her praises, not to write a great book. She is blameless in her destruction. It is her breathing, her life assertion, each movement of her ego which confuse, diminish, break others. She is sincere, blameless, innocent. I have aggrandized Henry. I can make a Dostoevsky of him. I breathe strength into him. I am aware of my power, but my power is feminine; it demands a match, not a victory. My power is also that of the artist, so that I don’t need Henry’s work personally as
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