IN TOUCH

``Places have always been more important to me than people,'' Bowles (b. 1910) confesses in one of more than 400 letters collected here by Miller. Spanning more than seven decades, the letters offer no intimate revelations and little celebrity gossip- -but they're full of dazzling descriptions of faraway places. ``At Asni the trees are full of peacocks that scream murder. The road swarms with children who hand us amethysts till we have nowhere to put them.'' With campy wit, Bowles compares the exotic to the homegrown mundane: In a Saharan oasis, the coarse grass ``looks like the stuff they put in Woolworth's windows on the floor of the display cases at Easter time''; in a Berber village, ``the streets and walls look as if someone had poured tons of white cake- icing over them.'' It's not surprising, then, that Bowles-the- writer's letters add up to a book that one would rather quote than discuss. What is surprising is the strength of Bowles-the- composer's devotion to Berber music and Bowles-the-husband's devotion to his wife through long years of illness. Descended from New England Puritans, Bowles read Poe at age six and took off from there. In the 30's, he was close to Gertrude Stein and Aaron Copland. In the 50's, he befriended Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, and Gore Vidal. In his pursuit of sexual adventure and his reliance on the drug kif, he was way ahead of the pack—led by Ginsberg and Burroughs—that hit Tangier in the 60's. More recently, Ph.D. candidates have elicited from him pithy statements on writing (on the hermetic absorption needed to complete a novel: ``Don't let the air in; it kills the fetus''). About a quarter of the collection is dead wood—chat about agents, contracts, fees—but read in one sitting, it's a fascinating, tonic history of the counterculture in what was for a time the American century. (Photographs)