Listen to: Finding It There By Goldmund
He was a photographer.
She was an artist.
They were in love.
They wrote letters to each other for over 30 years. They wrote to each other about anything, everything.
Where can one find a love like that these days?
He drove her crazy:
Dearest — my body is simply crazy with wanting you — If you don’t come tomorrow — I don’t see how I can wait for you — I wonder if your body wants mine the way mine wants yours — the kisses — the hotness — the wetness — all melting together — the being held so tight that it hurts — the strangle and the struggle. (source)
She was his muse:
How I wanted to photograph you — the hands — the mouth — & eyes — & the enveloped in black body — the touch of white — & the throat — (source)
He wanted to gift her eternity:
She loved him, wholeheartedly:
I love you, Dearest One, if I am capable of love. I often wonder, am I?—But if I am, it’s you there with me in the great white stillness—where there is a great peace & no ugliness.—No voices with edges that tear—
I often wondered if I’ll ever live a love story as great as this, or that of Hemingway. Even if it wouldn’t last, I would not mind.
Note: I do not own any of the letters or pictures published in this post. They are all cited from the source I got them from.