ABSTRACT
In a February 1928 letter to her Czech friend, Anna Teskova, with whom she enjoyed one of her classic distant intimacies, Marina Tsvetaeva wrote: “I haven't loved anyone — for a long time. […] I'm talking about love at liberty, under the sky, about unfettered love, secret love, not designated in passports, about the miracle of the strange there becoming here. You know, after all, that [for me] sex and age are beside the point” (Tsvetaeva 1991, 50).1
