March 16, 1950
Cat: my cat: If only you would write to me: My love, oh Cat.
This is not, as it seems from the address above, a dive, a joint, saloon, etc. but the honourable & dignified headquarters of the dons of the University of Chicago.
I love you. That is all I know. But all I know, too, is that I am writing into space: the kind of dreadful, unknown space I am just going to enter. I am going to Iowa, Illinois, Idaho, Indindiana, but these, though mis-spelt, *are* on the map. You are not.
Have you forgotten me? I am the man you used to say you loved. I used to sleep in your arms – do you remember? But you never write. You are perhaps mindless of me. I am not of you. I love you.
There isn’t a moment of any hideous day when I do not say to myself. ‘It will be alright. I shall go home. Caitlin loves me. I love Caitlin.’ But perhaps you have forgotten. If you have forgotten, or lost your affection for me, please, my Cat, let me know. I Love You.
Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet, to his wife Caitlin while he was on a reading tour in North America.
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