What ambitions I may have had were gone; there was nothing I wanted to do except to put myself completely in her hands.
SEXUS: THE ROSY CRUCIFIXION, BOOK IHenry Miller VOLUME 11 It must have been a Thursday night when I met her for the first time — at the dance hall.
I reported to work in the morning, after an hour or two's sleep, looking like a somnambulist. After dinner I fell asleep on the couch and awoke fully dressed about six the next morning.
I felt thoroughly refreshed, pure at heart, and obsessed with one idea — to have her at any cost.
Walking through the park I debated what sort of flowers to send with the book I had promised her (Winesburg, Ohio).
I was approaching my thirty-third year, the age of Christ crucified.
A wholly new life lay before me, had I the courage to risk all.
Actually there was nothing to risk: I was at the bottom rung of the ladder, a failure in every sense of the word.
It was a Saturday morning, then, and for me Saturday has always been the best day of the week.
I come to life when others are dropping off with fatigue; my week begins with the Jewish day of rest.
That this was to be the grand week of my life, to last for seven long years, I had no idea of course.
I knew only that the day was auspicious and eventful.