Not so long ago, my aunt thanked me for a book I’d sent. Her words: it fed my soul.


I couldn’t pinpoint a book I’d read that had reached my soul. As a book whore, this concerned me. Within a month, maybe more, I realized I simply hadn’t found my literary soulmate yet. I knew when I’d found her though: those first pages of Henry and June. Yes, it was her lusty adventures. Oh, GOD, was it her writing. I doubt it would matter what she wrote about, her style of writing felt soul-familiar. But when she talked about love, I knew. Love as creation. Feelings as guides. Writing as breathing.

She had a harem. They weren’t all aware of each other. That’s a bit more stress than I’d like in my life. But I love how she made sure that she was loved in every way that she needed. Her artistic side, her passionate side, her practical side, her mystical side. She embraced every aspect of humanity, within herself and those around her, with an awareness, energy and love that is staggering. And inspiring.

Perhaps it’s because we’re both Pisces. Or because I grew up playing All you need is love over and over again. But her words – her life – feed my soul.