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From "A Journal of Love" #2
Inceste
*** Book in French language ! ***Très bon état, in12 broché, n°3362 , Auteur : NIN, Anaïs , Titre : Journal inédit et non expurgé des années 1932 1934 Inceste , couverture souple, format poche , éditions : Le livre de poche de 2002
540 pages, Pocket Book
First published January 1, 1992
348 people are currently reading
4148 people want to read
About the author
Anaïs Nin
355 books8,897 followersWriter and diarist, born in Paris to a Catalan father and a Danish mother, Anaïs Nin spent many of her early years with Cuban relatives. Later a naturalized American citizen, she lived and worked in Paris, New York and Los Angeles. Author of avant-garde novels in the French surrealistic style and collections of erotica, she is best known for her life and times in The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volumes I-VII (1966-1980).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana%C3%...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana%C3%...
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 123 reviews
August 20, 2008
This book is really good when you are single and unhappy about it because it will make you fall crazily in love with everything from your pillow to your favorite song. It fixes whatever that thing is that sucks when you are alone. And makes it perfect.
September 7, 2015
I have never encountered a more hateful and repugnant subject of literary work than Anais Nin. I was eager to read her after hearing her lauded as a feminist hero, but what I found was a broken, tedious, narcissistic person with no sense of personal ethics. You're essentially reading the diary of a bored, spoiled housewife who fills her days with various adulterous escapade. This does not come across nearly as interesting as it sounds. This is not the story of a sexually liberated woman, but of a dysfunctional egomaniac with a literal oedipal complex who uses sex to validate her life and compensate for the childhood abandonment of her father. She seems to have sex, not because she is seeking pleasure, but simply because men expect it. She gives in even when she is otherwise not interested because it gives her a sense of power. She is on a never-ending quest for men who can fill the gap her father left, but no one is able to meet her impossible expectations of what a man should be. The more a man loves her, the weaker she finds him. Unfortunately, she never turns her hypercritical eye on her self. How interesting this book would have been if Nin had been capable of true introspection. Instead, we get delusions of grandeur where self-reflection should be. She constantly tells us how wonderful she is and how important she is to everyone in her life. Her obvious need to compensate for her fragile ego is tiresome. She constantly rationalizes her lying and manipulations, which seem to be her raison d'etre. She exploits her husband's love for her and his honorable character to subsidize her exploits and lovers, all the while holding him in abject disdain. There is nothing redeeming about her, not even her tedious writing, which is so bloated with self-importance that it is a chore to get through. Anais Nin is a person too self-interested to actually be interesting.
December 7, 2014
I want to spread myself on lots of paper, turn it into lots of sentences, lots of words so that I won't be walked on.
- Anais Nin
Nin's Incest is an explosive, emotional confession; an illuminating self analysis and in-depth psychological study of her soul. Relentlessly probing and insightful, Nin details and analyzes dreams and daily events, shedding light on her exhaustive need for love, in part due to the vacuous hole in her psyche left by her father's abandonment of the family when she was still a very young girl. Nin bares naked the sexual and pathological desires not only of herself but of well-known figures to whom she had strong attachments - Henry Miller, Otto Rank, Antonin Artaud, René Allendy , among others - all who seem like father-figures themselves. To Nin, to experience love meant to keep a balance between her independence and interdependence, her singularity and dual nature. Her own assessment of her dual nature is explained with the precision of a professional psychologist, as she describes the controversial liaisons with her estranged father, Joaquin - a self styled Don Juan.
Joaquin: "I had a dream of you which frightened me. I dreamed that you masturbated me with jeweled fingers and that I kissed you like a lover. For the first time in my life I was terrified."
Anaïs: "I also had a dream of you."
"I don't feel toward you as if you were my daughter."
"I don't feel as if you were my Father."
"What a tragedy. What are we going to do about it? I have met the woman of my life, the ideal, and it is my daughter! I cannot even kiss you as I would like to. I'm in love with my own daughter!"
Nin's writing aesthetic is hypnotic: the unrestrained style in which she reports events have both dreamlike and authentic qualities; fantastic yet real, allusive as well as explicit. She dares to write about such tabooed feelings and acts never before printed in women's books. In heated episodes of seduction, she becomes the 'bad' girl her father desires - she becomes in effect his double, a Donna Juana.
Nin acknowledges that she tortuously embraced the role of seducer to her padre -amour in order in the end to hurt Joaquin. Incest is a salacious confession in which Nin has laid herself widely opened like French doors on the balcony of the world - and oh, what a view!
Relationship was impossible unless one gave the most secret and deepest part of oneself...
The diary is not a Recherche du Temps Perdu. It is actually a seeking to unite the past, the present, and the future. My life today is just as it was when I was writing the diary; it is always very full and very rich. I'm always exploring new realms of experience, I'm always curious, I'm always ready for adventure. - Anaïs Nin, A Woman Speaks.
Nin's Incest is an explosive, emotional confession; an illuminating self analysis and in-depth psychological study of her soul. Relentlessly probing and insightful, Nin details and analyzes dreams and daily events, shedding light on her exhaustive need for love, in part due to the vacuous hole in her psyche left by her father's abandonment of the family when she was still a very young girl. Nin bares naked the sexual and pathological desires not only of herself but of well-known figures to whom she had strong attachments - Henry Miller, Otto Rank, Antonin Artaud, René Allendy , among others - all who seem like father-figures themselves. To Nin, to experience love meant to keep a balance between her independence and interdependence, her singularity and dual nature. Her own assessment of her dual nature is explained with the precision of a professional psychologist, as she describes the controversial liaisons with her estranged father, Joaquin - a self styled Don Juan.
Joaquin: "I had a dream of you which frightened me. I dreamed that you masturbated me with jeweled fingers and that I kissed you like a lover. For the first time in my life I was terrified."
Anaïs: "I also had a dream of you."
"I don't feel toward you as if you were my daughter."
"I don't feel as if you were my Father."
"What a tragedy. What are we going to do about it? I have met the woman of my life, the ideal, and it is my daughter! I cannot even kiss you as I would like to. I'm in love with my own daughter!"
Nin's writing aesthetic is hypnotic: the unrestrained style in which she reports events have both dreamlike and authentic qualities; fantastic yet real, allusive as well as explicit. She dares to write about such tabooed feelings and acts never before printed in women's books. In heated episodes of seduction, she becomes the 'bad' girl her father desires - she becomes in effect his double, a Donna Juana.
Nin acknowledges that she tortuously embraced the role of seducer to her padre -amour in order in the end to hurt Joaquin. Incest is a salacious confession in which Nin has laid herself widely opened like French doors on the balcony of the world - and oh, what a view!
Relationship was impossible unless one gave the most secret and deepest part of oneself...
The diary is not a Recherche du Temps Perdu. It is actually a seeking to unite the past, the present, and the future. My life today is just as it was when I was writing the diary; it is always very full and very rich. I'm always exploring new realms of experience, I'm always curious, I'm always ready for adventure. - Anaïs Nin, A Woman Speaks.
July 31, 2016
What a beautiful, beautiful thing: to be a woman. This is what Anais and her neuroticism, whore-ish behaviour and countless mistakes teach you.
Read
October 25, 2025#Tabus/ConfissõesIII
Sabedoria e sensualidade serão essas as minhas grandes asas, as últimas a salvarem-me da influência nebulosa, mediúnica, visionária de Neptuno, o meu planeta ascendente!
O escolha do título Incesto para este volume de diários de Anaïs não deixa de ser curioso - pelo óbvio e pelo inesperado. O óbvio, aquele que se prende com o seu sentido literal; o inesperado, aquele que diz respeito ao metafórico. Porque uma relação incestuosa não tem, necessariamente, de ser uma relação partilhada entre sangue. As relações que Anaïs Nin mantém, ao longo dos anos 1931/34 são, todas elas, incestuosas na medida em que a consanguinidade é aqui fruto de um ascendente comum que não é forçosamente biológico.
(...)eles são irmãos, todos homens neptunianos, fundamentalmente o mesmo tipo, a mesma imagem, consideração, actividade mental, misticismo, romanticismo, idealização, erudição.
Simultaneamente amantes, ascendentes e descendentes da sua esfera de influência, mentores e protegidos, os homens na vida de Anaïs Nin partilham diversos laços que os tornam familiarmente relacionados entre si:
Tenho a impressão de ter tido muitos filhos: Joaquin, Thorvald, Eduardo, Hugh, Henry e um marido apenas de vez em quando.
[...]
Sinto-me a mãe total, útero e terra com enormes asas protectoras! A paixão e a maternidade fundem-se - a mãe como noite, cobrindo o mundo, aconchegando-o, acalmando as suas dores.
Nasce daqui a fonte do tabu que melhor se expressa na relação psicológica e física que Anaïs virá a manter com um pai ausente e negligente que representa o parceiro ideal e inatingível.
Mas Incesto não é apenas a confissão de uma relação imoral entre pai/filha. Incesto é o diário do amadurecimento da sua autora e o registo do seu autoreconhecimento...
A minha vida tem sido uma longa tensão, um esforço e uma luta hercúleos para subir, para me exceder em tudo, para me tornar num grande carácter, para criar, para aperfeiçoar, para desenvolver uma ascensão desesperada e ansiosa para apagar e destruir uma insegurança constante acerca do meu próprio valor. Sempre apontando para mais alto, acumulando amores para compensar o choque e o terror iniciais da minha primeira per[d]a.
...da sua unidade sensual e intelectual...
Na maioria das pessoas a posse do conhecimento priva-as do sentido de admiração, mas esse sentido de admiração e mistério é como o medo que o selvagem sente do fogo misterioso até descobrir o seu princípio e o dominar. Eu afirmo que, depois de sabermos tudo o que há a saber, ainda existe mistério e admiração de um género mais profundo.
[...]
Repito vezes sem conta: Conhecimento consciente, inteligência, não são perigosos se se tiver emoção suficiente e sexualidade suficiente para continuar a andar. Os que são mortos são os emocionalmente e sexualmente fracos.
...e da sua aceitação do poder destrutivo da verdade (uma luta eterna para Nin):
Este diário prova uma ânsia tremenda, absorvente, de verdade, uma vez que para o escrever me arrisco a destruir todos os edifícios das minhas ilusões, todas as ofertas que fiz, tudo o que criei, a vida de Hugo, a vida de Henry, todos os que salvei da verdade, destruo aqui!
Será nestes anos 1932/34 que a vida de Anaïs Nin sofrerá as maiores reviravoltas, conhecendo o sucesso artístico, o reconhecimento dos pares, alguma estabilidade psicológica, crescimento emocional e o desabrochar de uma consciência voltada para o respeito e amor próprios como fonte de verdadeira inspiração:
Tudo isto está fora do livro, da obra de arte, mas mais razão ainda para o preservar aqui. No livro, conten[ç]ão, simulação, artifícios! Mas eu preciso de um sítio onde possa gritar e chorar. Tenho de ser uma espanhola selvagem a alguma hora do dia. Registo aqui a histeria que a vida me provoca. O extravasar de uma extravagância indisciplinada. Ao diabo o gosto e a arte, todas as reservas e polimentos. Aqui eu grito, eu danço, eu choro, eu ranjo os dentes, eu enlouqueço tudo sozinha, em mau inglês, no caos. Isso manter-me-á racional para o mundo e para a arte.
Revelando uma faceta amadurecida e em paz consigo mesma, Anaïs consegue, neste diário, fazer-se justiça e revelar-se por inteiro: pujante, sensual, corpórea e mística.
Todos temos medo e uma enorme necessidade de sermos dois para enfrentar a vida. O amor é um reconhecimento do Tu. Uma necessidade do Tu. De uma ou outra forma, eu perco sempre o meu guia a meio da montanha. Creio que não procuro um homem mas sim um deus. Começo a sentir um vazio que deve ser a ausência de Deus. Divinizei o homem. Um após outro, exigi um guia, um pai, um líder, um provedor. Tenho um marido, um protector, amantes, um pai, camaradas, mas ainda me falta algo. Deve ser Deus. Mas eu odeio Deus abstracção. Quero Deus em carne e osso, o Deus encarnado com vitalidade e dois braços e um sexo. E sem imperfeições.
1932/34 são também os anos física e espiritualmente mais esgotantes para Anaïs Nin. Mantendo relações ativas com vários homens, entre eles Artaud, Miller, Rank e o próprio pai, é neste curto espaço de tempo que a mulher infecunda (Anaïs tinha um diagnóstico de infertilidade) dá lugar à mulher frutífera e a algumas das páginas mais pungentes não só do seu diário, mas também, arrisco dizer, da literatura.
Morosa no processo de abdicar da sua gravidez, Anaïs encerra este volume com uma das experiências mais traumáticas na vida de um mulher - um processo de aborto violento, animal, brutal:
Eu agarrei-me ao meu «filho», ao Ovo. Levei mais tempo que qual-quer outra mulher a abortar. Confundi a sage-femme. A concepção, devido à introversão da matriz, era de facto impossível, e contudo deu-se. O aborto devia ter levado duas semanas. A mim levou-me quatro meses. Eu amei a sensação de crescimento em mim, o bem-estar físico, a riqueza, a ligação com a terra, toda a experiência física da gravidez. Tenho sonhos: De uma mulher a atirar um bebé ao mar, e eu furiosa com ela. De bebés deficientes que tento não ver. Ódio à destruição. Esta semente dentro de mim, eu amei-a.
Conscientemente, tomei a minha decisão e mantive-a. Inconscientemente, preservei a ilusão. O inchaço do estômago, a sensação de expansão, de plenitude.
[...]
Assemelhava-se a uma boneca, ou a um velho índio em miniatura. Com cerca de trinta centímetros. Pele em cima dos ossos. Sem carne. Mas completamente formada. O médico disse-me mais tarde que tinha mãos e pés exactamente como os meus, e longas pestanas. A cabeca era maior que o normal. Era morena. A criança tinha morrido estrangulada, talvez, ou das operações. Mais um dia e o tumor da sua cabeça ter-me-ia infectado. Eu teria morrido. Enquanto fitava o pequeno índio odiei-o durante um momento por toda a dor que me causara, e porque era uma menina e eu imaginara um rapaz(...)Uma criação morta, a minha primeira criação morta.
Agora uma verdadeira artista, uma artifice da vida, Anaïs volta-se em pleno para a criação ficcional e para a escrita da sua própria história.
De fora deste diário, ao contrário do anterior Henry e June, ficam as vozes dos homens que desencadeiam ou são afetados pelos eventos da sua vida.
Menos efervescente, mais autoconsciente e controlada, a Anaïs destes anos fica como uma mulher excelsa que não treme perante os desafios da vida.
Sou uma neurótica - no sentido em que vivo no meu mundo.
Não me adaptarei ao mundo. Estou adaptada a mim.
[...]
(...)Talvez eu não me torne uma santa. Mas estou muito cheia e muito rica, e tenho muito sobre que escrever. Agradar-me-á um pouco de paz e algumas recordações cautelosas. Não posso instalar-me definitivamente na vida humana. Isso não chega. Tenho de subir a regiões mais vertiginosas.
Sabedoria e sensualidade serão essas as minhas grandes asas, as últimas a salvarem-me da influência nebulosa, mediúnica, visionária de Neptuno, o meu planeta ascendente!
O escolha do título Incesto para este volume de diários de Anaïs não deixa de ser curioso - pelo óbvio e pelo inesperado. O óbvio, aquele que se prende com o seu sentido literal; o inesperado, aquele que diz respeito ao metafórico. Porque uma relação incestuosa não tem, necessariamente, de ser uma relação partilhada entre sangue. As relações que Anaïs Nin mantém, ao longo dos anos 1931/34 são, todas elas, incestuosas na medida em que a consanguinidade é aqui fruto de um ascendente comum que não é forçosamente biológico.
(...)eles são irmãos, todos homens neptunianos, fundamentalmente o mesmo tipo, a mesma imagem, consideração, actividade mental, misticismo, romanticismo, idealização, erudição.
Simultaneamente amantes, ascendentes e descendentes da sua esfera de influência, mentores e protegidos, os homens na vida de Anaïs Nin partilham diversos laços que os tornam familiarmente relacionados entre si:
Tenho a impressão de ter tido muitos filhos: Joaquin, Thorvald, Eduardo, Hugh, Henry e um marido apenas de vez em quando.
[...]
Sinto-me a mãe total, útero e terra com enormes asas protectoras! A paixão e a maternidade fundem-se - a mãe como noite, cobrindo o mundo, aconchegando-o, acalmando as suas dores.
Nasce daqui a fonte do tabu que melhor se expressa na relação psicológica e física que Anaïs virá a manter com um pai ausente e negligente que representa o parceiro ideal e inatingível.
Mas Incesto não é apenas a confissão de uma relação imoral entre pai/filha. Incesto é o diário do amadurecimento da sua autora e o registo do seu autoreconhecimento...
A minha vida tem sido uma longa tensão, um esforço e uma luta hercúleos para subir, para me exceder em tudo, para me tornar num grande carácter, para criar, para aperfeiçoar, para desenvolver uma ascensão desesperada e ansiosa para apagar e destruir uma insegurança constante acerca do meu próprio valor. Sempre apontando para mais alto, acumulando amores para compensar o choque e o terror iniciais da minha primeira per[d]a.
...da sua unidade sensual e intelectual...
Na maioria das pessoas a posse do conhecimento priva-as do sentido de admiração, mas esse sentido de admiração e mistério é como o medo que o selvagem sente do fogo misterioso até descobrir o seu princípio e o dominar. Eu afirmo que, depois de sabermos tudo o que há a saber, ainda existe mistério e admiração de um género mais profundo.
[...]
Repito vezes sem conta: Conhecimento consciente, inteligência, não são perigosos se se tiver emoção suficiente e sexualidade suficiente para continuar a andar. Os que são mortos são os emocionalmente e sexualmente fracos.
...e da sua aceitação do poder destrutivo da verdade (uma luta eterna para Nin):
Este diário prova uma ânsia tremenda, absorvente, de verdade, uma vez que para o escrever me arrisco a destruir todos os edifícios das minhas ilusões, todas as ofertas que fiz, tudo o que criei, a vida de Hugo, a vida de Henry, todos os que salvei da verdade, destruo aqui!
Será nestes anos 1932/34 que a vida de Anaïs Nin sofrerá as maiores reviravoltas, conhecendo o sucesso artístico, o reconhecimento dos pares, alguma estabilidade psicológica, crescimento emocional e o desabrochar de uma consciência voltada para o respeito e amor próprios como fonte de verdadeira inspiração:
Tudo isto está fora do livro, da obra de arte, mas mais razão ainda para o preservar aqui. No livro, conten[ç]ão, simulação, artifícios! Mas eu preciso de um sítio onde possa gritar e chorar. Tenho de ser uma espanhola selvagem a alguma hora do dia. Registo aqui a histeria que a vida me provoca. O extravasar de uma extravagância indisciplinada. Ao diabo o gosto e a arte, todas as reservas e polimentos. Aqui eu grito, eu danço, eu choro, eu ranjo os dentes, eu enlouqueço tudo sozinha, em mau inglês, no caos. Isso manter-me-á racional para o mundo e para a arte.
Revelando uma faceta amadurecida e em paz consigo mesma, Anaïs consegue, neste diário, fazer-se justiça e revelar-se por inteiro: pujante, sensual, corpórea e mística.
Todos temos medo e uma enorme necessidade de sermos dois para enfrentar a vida. O amor é um reconhecimento do Tu. Uma necessidade do Tu. De uma ou outra forma, eu perco sempre o meu guia a meio da montanha. Creio que não procuro um homem mas sim um deus. Começo a sentir um vazio que deve ser a ausência de Deus. Divinizei o homem. Um após outro, exigi um guia, um pai, um líder, um provedor. Tenho um marido, um protector, amantes, um pai, camaradas, mas ainda me falta algo. Deve ser Deus. Mas eu odeio Deus abstracção. Quero Deus em carne e osso, o Deus encarnado com vitalidade e dois braços e um sexo. E sem imperfeições.
1932/34 são também os anos física e espiritualmente mais esgotantes para Anaïs Nin. Mantendo relações ativas com vários homens, entre eles Artaud, Miller, Rank e o próprio pai, é neste curto espaço de tempo que a mulher infecunda (Anaïs tinha um diagnóstico de infertilidade) dá lugar à mulher frutífera e a algumas das páginas mais pungentes não só do seu diário, mas também, arrisco dizer, da literatura.
Morosa no processo de abdicar da sua gravidez, Anaïs encerra este volume com uma das experiências mais traumáticas na vida de um mulher - um processo de aborto violento, animal, brutal:
Eu agarrei-me ao meu «filho», ao Ovo. Levei mais tempo que qual-quer outra mulher a abortar. Confundi a sage-femme. A concepção, devido à introversão da matriz, era de facto impossível, e contudo deu-se. O aborto devia ter levado duas semanas. A mim levou-me quatro meses. Eu amei a sensação de crescimento em mim, o bem-estar físico, a riqueza, a ligação com a terra, toda a experiência física da gravidez. Tenho sonhos: De uma mulher a atirar um bebé ao mar, e eu furiosa com ela. De bebés deficientes que tento não ver. Ódio à destruição. Esta semente dentro de mim, eu amei-a.
Conscientemente, tomei a minha decisão e mantive-a. Inconscientemente, preservei a ilusão. O inchaço do estômago, a sensação de expansão, de plenitude.
[...]
Assemelhava-se a uma boneca, ou a um velho índio em miniatura. Com cerca de trinta centímetros. Pele em cima dos ossos. Sem carne. Mas completamente formada. O médico disse-me mais tarde que tinha mãos e pés exactamente como os meus, e longas pestanas. A cabeca era maior que o normal. Era morena. A criança tinha morrido estrangulada, talvez, ou das operações. Mais um dia e o tumor da sua cabeça ter-me-ia infectado. Eu teria morrido. Enquanto fitava o pequeno índio odiei-o durante um momento por toda a dor que me causara, e porque era uma menina e eu imaginara um rapaz(...)Uma criação morta, a minha primeira criação morta.
Agora uma verdadeira artista, uma artifice da vida, Anaïs volta-se em pleno para a criação ficcional e para a escrita da sua própria história.
De fora deste diário, ao contrário do anterior Henry e June, ficam as vozes dos homens que desencadeiam ou são afetados pelos eventos da sua vida.
Menos efervescente, mais autoconsciente e controlada, a Anaïs destes anos fica como uma mulher excelsa que não treme perante os desafios da vida.
Sou uma neurótica - no sentido em que vivo no meu mundo.
Não me adaptarei ao mundo. Estou adaptada a mim.
[...]
(...)Talvez eu não me torne uma santa. Mas estou muito cheia e muito rica, e tenho muito sobre que escrever. Agradar-me-á um pouco de paz e algumas recordações cautelosas. Não posso instalar-me definitivamente na vida humana. Isso não chega. Tenho de subir a regiões mais vertiginosas.
March 15, 2017
“To hell, to hell with balance! I break glasses; I want to burn, even if I break myself. I live only for ecstasy. Nothing else affects me. Small doses, moderate love, all the demi-teintes – all these leave me cold. I like extravagance, heat… sexuality which bursts the thermometer! I’m neurotic, perverted, destructive, fiery, dangerous – lava, inflammable, unrestrained. I feel like a jungle animal who is escaping captivity.”
how can one describe the hunger and joie de vivre of anaïs nin? years and years of journals but her hothouse prose will never cease to amaze me. a feverish and captivating self-analysis of a hypnotizing artist and her creative growth. a liar, a madwoman, a narcissist; who absolutely exposed and changed some of the deepest aspects of sexuality in literature. i’m so, so damn in love with her “demon of restlessness”, her force continues to inspire me with the superabundance of ecstasy. her lovers, her ideas, how changed the people she touched were left. what a way to live! “Then I sat at the typewriter, saying to myself: Write, you weakling; write, you madwoman, write your misery out, write out your guts, spill out what is choking you, shout obscenely.”
how can one describe the hunger and joie de vivre of anaïs nin? years and years of journals but her hothouse prose will never cease to amaze me. a feverish and captivating self-analysis of a hypnotizing artist and her creative growth. a liar, a madwoman, a narcissist; who absolutely exposed and changed some of the deepest aspects of sexuality in literature. i’m so, so damn in love with her “demon of restlessness”, her force continues to inspire me with the superabundance of ecstasy. her lovers, her ideas, how changed the people she touched were left. what a way to live! “Then I sat at the typewriter, saying to myself: Write, you weakling; write, you madwoman, write your misery out, write out your guts, spill out what is choking you, shout obscenely.”
August 23, 2020
Let me start off by admitting that i was yet another poor individual who thought the incest of the title was metaphorical. I very soon found out IT'S NOT, but decided to try & read it anyway. I think at some point it became a "this book will not defeat me", & then at another, it ended up feeling similar to watching trashy TV, like The Real Housewives or something.
Thankfully, i got this book for free, so it didn't put me out any much-needed money. I picked it up because i'd seen so many quotes by Anais Nin all over the internet for years, & she's always mentioned as Someone You Should Read. I also usually like reading journals & the like because i guess, ultimately, i'm just kind of nosy.
But after this, i'm pretty much certain i'm not going to read any more of Nin's writing. Even if she & her own father hadn't fucked, i don't think i would read any more of her stuff. Based off of what she wrote, & the claims that this is the unaltered journal, i don't think i even like Nin as a person. And that's even if we don't play the "XYZ [like the sprinklings of racist comments, or how she viewed women in general] was normalized back in her day" game. I kind of have to agree with other reviewers: for someone who claims to be all about love, & to be oh-so full of love, the feeling i get of Nin is, honestly, a nasty person. Yes, journals & diaries are supposed to be where a person can dump anything & everything, & be as bitchy as they want to be (we all do it), but. Goddamn.
And fine, sure, one can then argue about what women were limited to being able to do. Cite the times, the environment, the viewpoints, everything. My overall feel of her remains the same.
And yes, every male in her life sounds like they were giant man-children, especially Miller, who couldn't seem to wipe his own ass without Nin guiding his hands. I think that's why her comments about women in general become even more frustrating, because she's seeing it from such a male perspective. It sounds to me like she bought into the whole patriarchal ideas of what women are "allowed" to be, & that women are supposed to be self-sacrificing, even to the detriment of their own lives. It sounds like it was internalized misogyny that caused Nin to babysit every male that came into her life, even her own damn father, even her own damn therapists, & perhaps she had to chalk it all up to "I'm just so full of love" in order to make it work in her mind.
But the way she thinks of people was so nasty at times, & she seemed to swing wildly back & forth between the viewpoints. The way she talks about her actual husband is shitty; she constantly goes on about how he's dead to life & sees nothing & interprets nothing. She basically admits that she stays with him because of financial reasons & guilt. There are incredibly brief moments where she goes, "Oh, I love him because of __", but the majority of the time it's more that he's below her because he doesn't "interpret" things or live, just stays in his astrology books. It's funny she accuses him of all this, while acknowledging, at some point, that life frightens her & she dislikes it, & would rather live in fantasy in her head. But that never causes her to cut the guy some slack. Or the first therapist she has sex with, whose "feminine" features she rags on, & whom she calls pathetic. But instead of letting either down, she strings them both along.
Have i or anyone else yet mentioned THE INCEST ISN'T METAPHORICAL?? She fucks her father, she fucks Henry, she fucks both therapists, her husband maybe tries to get something going, & then some guy tries to fuck her but he can't get hard. There is so much fuckin' going on, & sometimes with details, like after she & her father go at it, she has to walk back to her room with a cloth between her legs because his "sperm" was "overabundant". Not yucking anyone's yum, but in this context, it's her father. I do not care how long they were apart, i don't care that neither of them felt they were familial relations to the other. This is the kind of shit Alabama jokes are made of, but because it's ~Anais Nin~, she's somehow given a pass?
I will say, based on her recollection, that i question how consenting she was at first. What she writes sounds potentially like she wasn't fully consenting, but, again, let a man's dick in her because she thought that was the way of things. Later on, though, she sounds perfectly a-okay with it.
The fact that she had sex with both her therapists-- er, "analysts"-- & that these men couldn't be trusted to actually be professional & keep their cocks in their pants disturbs me just as much. Maybe it's because these days we're all so aware of abuses of power, we see or hear about them daily, & so many of us (myself included) see therapists, & it's frightening to think of someone who is supposed to be a trusted professional instead seeing you sexually. Again, though, Nin is all for it. I'm not saying people shouldn't be promiscuous, but there's a lot that goes into doing it safely & ethically. Reading from this, Nin wasn't doing anything to make her promiscuity either. She got pregnant! And had to have an abortion, even though it sounds like she didn't wholly want one! But because she thought she had to let fucking Miller suckle at her for eternity, & that wore her out, she decided it was best for her.
Honestly, those pages about her abortion were the only ones that drew me in. It was only there that her writing seemed to have any kind of power & true heat to it. It sounded like a fever dream; you feel her pain & disorientation, the agony of how long it went for. As much as i don't feel i like Nin as a person, i feel sympathy for what she went through there, because it was a whole ordeal, a moment of her feeling she was fighting hard for her life, literally & figuratively. These few pages are the sole reason i bumped my rating up to 2 stars.
And as much as i don't like her, my irritation for Henry Miller, i think, knows no bounds. If you haven't caught that yet. He feels like THE ultimate man-child in this journal. I will say that Nin worked her ass off for him, instead of him doing the work himself, for himself. Maddeningly, even as near the end she finally starts to become disillusioned by him, she still continues the trend of "Well, I just love SOOOOOOO much, so this is me loving Henry & I will do anything for him!"
I don't know what i'm going to do with the book. It's slightly water damaged, & i got it at The Book Thing, so if i'm being ethical, i can't resell it. Since COVID started, i'm not sure if anyone's allowing people to put books in the Little Free Libraries. I don't know if i should just keep it for some unspecified reason for the future. I don't want to reread it. I finished it & that's enough for me. It wasn't enlightening, it didn't enthrall me, it definitely didn't make me into a Nin acolyte. It wasn't informative or anything, it ended up feeling just... trashy. It was all sex sex sex, claims of "love", fucking her dad, fucking everybody else, & Nin seeming to think she was better than many others in so many ways, while still putting herself down when talking about being a woman. Like, nah, i'm good. I think i've had all the Anais Nin i need in life.
Thankfully, i got this book for free, so it didn't put me out any much-needed money. I picked it up because i'd seen so many quotes by Anais Nin all over the internet for years, & she's always mentioned as Someone You Should Read. I also usually like reading journals & the like because i guess, ultimately, i'm just kind of nosy.
But after this, i'm pretty much certain i'm not going to read any more of Nin's writing. Even if she & her own father hadn't fucked, i don't think i would read any more of her stuff. Based off of what she wrote, & the claims that this is the unaltered journal, i don't think i even like Nin as a person. And that's even if we don't play the "XYZ [like the sprinklings of racist comments, or how she viewed women in general] was normalized back in her day" game. I kind of have to agree with other reviewers: for someone who claims to be all about love, & to be oh-so full of love, the feeling i get of Nin is, honestly, a nasty person. Yes, journals & diaries are supposed to be where a person can dump anything & everything, & be as bitchy as they want to be (we all do it), but. Goddamn.
And fine, sure, one can then argue about what women were limited to being able to do. Cite the times, the environment, the viewpoints, everything. My overall feel of her remains the same.
And yes, every male in her life sounds like they were giant man-children, especially Miller, who couldn't seem to wipe his own ass without Nin guiding his hands. I think that's why her comments about women in general become even more frustrating, because she's seeing it from such a male perspective. It sounds to me like she bought into the whole patriarchal ideas of what women are "allowed" to be, & that women are supposed to be self-sacrificing, even to the detriment of their own lives. It sounds like it was internalized misogyny that caused Nin to babysit every male that came into her life, even her own damn father, even her own damn therapists, & perhaps she had to chalk it all up to "I'm just so full of love" in order to make it work in her mind.
But the way she thinks of people was so nasty at times, & she seemed to swing wildly back & forth between the viewpoints. The way she talks about her actual husband is shitty; she constantly goes on about how he's dead to life & sees nothing & interprets nothing. She basically admits that she stays with him because of financial reasons & guilt. There are incredibly brief moments where she goes, "Oh, I love him because of __", but the majority of the time it's more that he's below her because he doesn't "interpret" things or live, just stays in his astrology books. It's funny she accuses him of all this, while acknowledging, at some point, that life frightens her & she dislikes it, & would rather live in fantasy in her head. But that never causes her to cut the guy some slack. Or the first therapist she has sex with, whose "feminine" features she rags on, & whom she calls pathetic. But instead of letting either down, she strings them both along.
Have i or anyone else yet mentioned THE INCEST ISN'T METAPHORICAL?? She fucks her father, she fucks Henry, she fucks both therapists, her husband maybe tries to get something going, & then some guy tries to fuck her but he can't get hard. There is so much fuckin' going on, & sometimes with details, like after she & her father go at it, she has to walk back to her room with a cloth between her legs because his "sperm" was "overabundant". Not yucking anyone's yum, but in this context, it's her father. I do not care how long they were apart, i don't care that neither of them felt they were familial relations to the other. This is the kind of shit Alabama jokes are made of, but because it's ~Anais Nin~, she's somehow given a pass?
I will say, based on her recollection, that i question how consenting she was at first. What she writes sounds potentially like she wasn't fully consenting, but, again, let a man's dick in her because she thought that was the way of things. Later on, though, she sounds perfectly a-okay with it.
The fact that she had sex with both her therapists-- er, "analysts"-- & that these men couldn't be trusted to actually be professional & keep their cocks in their pants disturbs me just as much. Maybe it's because these days we're all so aware of abuses of power, we see or hear about them daily, & so many of us (myself included) see therapists, & it's frightening to think of someone who is supposed to be a trusted professional instead seeing you sexually. Again, though, Nin is all for it. I'm not saying people shouldn't be promiscuous, but there's a lot that goes into doing it safely & ethically. Reading from this, Nin wasn't doing anything to make her promiscuity either. She got pregnant! And had to have an abortion, even though it sounds like she didn't wholly want one! But because she thought she had to let fucking Miller suckle at her for eternity, & that wore her out, she decided it was best for her.
Honestly, those pages about her abortion were the only ones that drew me in. It was only there that her writing seemed to have any kind of power & true heat to it. It sounded like a fever dream; you feel her pain & disorientation, the agony of how long it went for. As much as i don't feel i like Nin as a person, i feel sympathy for what she went through there, because it was a whole ordeal, a moment of her feeling she was fighting hard for her life, literally & figuratively. These few pages are the sole reason i bumped my rating up to 2 stars.
And as much as i don't like her, my irritation for Henry Miller, i think, knows no bounds. If you haven't caught that yet. He feels like THE ultimate man-child in this journal. I will say that Nin worked her ass off for him, instead of him doing the work himself, for himself. Maddeningly, even as near the end she finally starts to become disillusioned by him, she still continues the trend of "Well, I just love SOOOOOOO much, so this is me loving Henry & I will do anything for him!"
I don't know what i'm going to do with the book. It's slightly water damaged, & i got it at The Book Thing, so if i'm being ethical, i can't resell it. Since COVID started, i'm not sure if anyone's allowing people to put books in the Little Free Libraries. I don't know if i should just keep it for some unspecified reason for the future. I don't want to reread it. I finished it & that's enough for me. It wasn't enlightening, it didn't enthrall me, it definitely didn't make me into a Nin acolyte. It wasn't informative or anything, it ended up feeling just... trashy. It was all sex sex sex, claims of "love", fucking her dad, fucking everybody else, & Nin seeming to think she was better than many others in so many ways, while still putting herself down when talking about being a woman. Like, nah, i'm good. I think i've had all the Anais Nin i need in life.
March 16, 2009
If you’re not up for reading Anaïs Nin’s entire catalogue (which is what I plan to do, eventually), Henry and June is probably the book to dip into for a taste of her journals: it captures the passion and joie de vivre that she’s famed for. But while I loved that book, I think I enjoyed Incest more.
Admittedly, it is really, really long (~200,000 words), with an unevenness of writing that can be frustrating. There are times when you’re dying to know what’s been happening and Nin simply chooses not to record events in any detail. It’s also, obviously, missing a real beginning or end.
Nonetheless, it’s an extremely compelling book, with a fantastic cast of characters. It became akin to my daily soap opera for the few weeks that I was reading. I would find myself dying for someone to discuss it with – not to examine its literary merits, but simply to gossip about the action as if it were an episode of EastEnders. Oooh, do you think Anaïs is finally going to leave Hugo? etc.
In terms of action, there’s a lot more that goes on in this book than Henry and June. Anaïs’s relationship with her father obviously forms the book’s central point, but the flings and flirtations that she conducts with Allendy, Artaud and Rank also add interest. Though the book lacks the structure of a novel, there is an unexpectedly horrendous moment of drama near the end that acts as a climax, and the book is not entirely without conclusion.
Nin’s prose remains a joy in which to immerse yourself. I’m not someone who ordinarily dogears pages, but I find myself doing it all the time when I read Nin’s diaries, because there are so many exquisite passages that I want to return to in order to read over and over again.
Admittedly, it is really, really long (~200,000 words), with an unevenness of writing that can be frustrating. There are times when you’re dying to know what’s been happening and Nin simply chooses not to record events in any detail. It’s also, obviously, missing a real beginning or end.
Nonetheless, it’s an extremely compelling book, with a fantastic cast of characters. It became akin to my daily soap opera for the few weeks that I was reading. I would find myself dying for someone to discuss it with – not to examine its literary merits, but simply to gossip about the action as if it were an episode of EastEnders. Oooh, do you think Anaïs is finally going to leave Hugo? etc.
In terms of action, there’s a lot more that goes on in this book than Henry and June. Anaïs’s relationship with her father obviously forms the book’s central point, but the flings and flirtations that she conducts with Allendy, Artaud and Rank also add interest. Though the book lacks the structure of a novel, there is an unexpectedly horrendous moment of drama near the end that acts as a climax, and the book is not entirely without conclusion.
Nin’s prose remains a joy in which to immerse yourself. I’m not someone who ordinarily dogears pages, but I find myself doing it all the time when I read Nin’s diaries, because there are so many exquisite passages that I want to return to in order to read over and over again.
September 14, 2007
Anais is inflated, overly romanticizing and obviously obsessed with her prowess. Good for her. She also changed the face of the feminine and exposed some of the deepest aspects of sexuality that has ever been writ. She almost made me want to sleep with my own father. Almost.
April 11, 2021
Anais's diaries are not for everyone they are hyper sexual with most of human taboos broken. But they are not pornographic. There are very few saucy, graphic descriptions she mostly focuses on the emotional and psychological sides of her actions. Breaking down her behavior and that of her partners into hundreds observations of their nature.
Reading her diaries is like watching the ocean - everything is constantly in movement, everything is changing. Her endless love on one page turns into boredom on the next. For me it was illuminating - we are so used to the ideal of being true and consistent with our emotions and opinions once they are formed and articulated that we often ignore their true nature - one of fluidity and change. We are not machines that run one program for all eternity.
Anais's diaries make me want to live, to feel, to be completely transparent and honest with myself, not be astranged from any part in me no matter how much the world might disapprove of that part.
How lucky it is that she had the courage (and was narcissistic enough) to share her deepest self with us.
Reading her diaries is like watching the ocean - everything is constantly in movement, everything is changing. Her endless love on one page turns into boredom on the next. For me it was illuminating - we are so used to the ideal of being true and consistent with our emotions and opinions once they are formed and articulated that we often ignore their true nature - one of fluidity and change. We are not machines that run one program for all eternity.
Anais's diaries make me want to live, to feel, to be completely transparent and honest with myself, not be astranged from any part in me no matter how much the world might disapprove of that part.
How lucky it is that she had the courage (and was narcissistic enough) to share her deepest self with us.
January 30, 2021
What a place of privilege you all come from to say this book makes you want to sleep with your father!
As someone who has been abused by their father, this was awful. I love her work, but can’t give this anymore than a single star.
I’ve heard that her father was never in her life, that she made this all up because she is sick. Not sure of the truth, but I hope that is it. Either way, it doesn’t change what is written here, and how disgusting it is to put those ideas out to impressionable people. This of course is not the first time she has wrote about sexual predators in a ‘romantic’ way. Again, she is an amazing writer, but undoubtedly tarnished an otherwise good reputation with shit like this.
As someone who has been abused by their father, this was awful. I love her work, but can’t give this anymore than a single star.
I’ve heard that her father was never in her life, that she made this all up because she is sick. Not sure of the truth, but I hope that is it. Either way, it doesn’t change what is written here, and how disgusting it is to put those ideas out to impressionable people. This of course is not the first time she has wrote about sexual predators in a ‘romantic’ way. Again, she is an amazing writer, but undoubtedly tarnished an otherwise good reputation with shit like this.
Read
January 25, 2020Nu stiu cum sa pun jurnalul acesta in stelute ... nu o voi face . Am mai citit jurnale, dar nu ca acesta ... Cred ca asa trebuie sa fie un jurnal ...neindulcit si infiorator de sincer . Anais Nin nu doar exista, ea chiar traia, explora, invata ... si scria . Parca am citit ceva ce nu trebuia sa citesc, asta e sentimentul ... am citit ceva mult prea personal, mult prea intim ... de asta nu il pot pune in stelute, e ca si cum as judeca viata ei si alegerile ei . Nu pot . A curge viata prin tine si a fi femeie e ceva extraordinar ... si Anais Nin stia .
September 24, 2007
A fascinating insight into a rather complex woman. Not as shocking as I thought it would have been given its title. Anais is a woman struggling desperately to find herself and her own sexuality. She is however certainly no helpless victim. She orchestrates many of her own disasters. Her ability to tell lies and to step from one role and one life to another is remarkable if somewhat disturbing. Though she is not without guilt, for she often laments how she hates all the lies but then goes on to only more complex situations where even more deception and duplicity are necessary. Although there were many facets of Anais’s character that did not lie easy with me I was by the time I finished this book quite fond of her.
July 5, 2017
I read almost everything Nin wrote when I was younger, and admired her a great deal. Now, much older, I find myself strangely bored by all the sex. It seems like all she thinks about is sex. She swoons so much about Henry Miller it makes me want to throw up. She slept with everyone, it seems like--even her therapists and her father. Of course the sex with her father is disturbing, but at the end of the day it's a bit boring because it's just like the sex with everyone else. As much as I admire her as a writer, this journal reminds me of something a smart, sex-crazed teenager might write. Where are her thoughts on what's going on with the world? Her readings? Philosophy? Is sex really the only thing for her?
January 27, 2018
In my opinion this book is overrated but much better than other works she wrote. As a writer, I do not like her. She is predictable and obnoxious.
October 16, 2008
I love how Nin writes; so tangibly and sensuous. She writes about ugly, terrible, taboo things and makes it so damn beautiful and romantic and sexy. And, of course, with a bravery and exposure that I'm not sure I've ever seen paralleled!
Nin is all feminine and is a fantastic example of the female writer. Analytical, emotional, insightful, psychological, relational, personal, strong, beautiful, asthetic, narrative, dynamic, non-linear. I find her very exciting to read.
i also found her inspiring. Her fearlessness to bare what was ugly about herself, to look so bravely into her true drives and desires inspired me to take my journaling to a new depth. Herein I learned so much more about who i am, things long buried and denied. it freed me to make bold choices that previously were not even acknowledged as choices! Because of this book i left my marriage and became integrated with my femininity and sensuality and here I am now-never happier!...and I didn't even need to fuck my father to get there!
Nin is all feminine and is a fantastic example of the female writer. Analytical, emotional, insightful, psychological, relational, personal, strong, beautiful, asthetic, narrative, dynamic, non-linear. I find her very exciting to read.
i also found her inspiring. Her fearlessness to bare what was ugly about herself, to look so bravely into her true drives and desires inspired me to take my journaling to a new depth. Herein I learned so much more about who i am, things long buried and denied. it freed me to make bold choices that previously were not even acknowledged as choices! Because of this book i left my marriage and became integrated with my femininity and sensuality and here I am now-never happier!...and I didn't even need to fuck my father to get there!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 13, 2025
No, Incest is not a symbolic title. Anais Nin really does do it with daddy — repeatedly — and shares it all with you, dear reader, in her 1932-34 volume of her unexpurgated diary. Since it's Nin, there are other salacious exploits with other people, but her — ahem — unusual experiences with the father who left when she was a girl are the most likely to stay with the reader, for good or ill. Needless to say, Nin went through some analysis during this time. Staying sort of objective is a requirement with this volume, otherwise your disgust/discomfort might not allow you to go on. Nin's amazing thoughts and vivid writing are worth it, though. For the record, not as good as Henry and June, but I give it the same star rating.
October 5, 2010
For someone who opened herself up completely in her writings, she went all out here! I know that this was in fact her diary and I believe it wasn't supposed to be published until the death of her husband (as in Henry and June) if these diaries were to be published at all, even after her death. She tells it all here--and I won't spoil it fort you. It's a must read for anyone who's read her erotica or other diaries. On second thought I'm changing my rating to five stars as I'm now re-reading this. Read it! Enjoy!
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July 17, 2023i love reading artist diaries as a nosy person for juicy historical gossip but this also offers amazing background info on how her fiction relates to her personal life and relations. at times heartbroken by How. Many. Words. And. Energy. were spent on bloody Henry Miller (GIRL U DESERVE BETTER, LEAVE HIM !! chant)
and ig men she slept with in general; at times nauseated by graphic (consenting) incest; at times in awe by her genius and beautiful mind.
and ig men she slept with in general; at times nauseated by graphic (consenting) incest; at times in awe by her genius and beautiful mind.
March 21, 2022
over 100 pages in and i’ve decided to not finish it because of how insufferable this woman is. didn’t even get to the incest part :-(
September 9, 2013
There comes a time in everyone's life where they are faced with conflicting thoughts. On one hand...the basis of my rating, this book is very well written. Anais Nin has such a poetic way of writing. I almost feel as if I'm in Paris with her. On the other hand, the conflicting thought I couldn't help but be mildly disturbed that not only did she sleep with her father, but she also aborted a six month old child. *Which may or may not have been commonplace in that time period* However even with the questionable content I still give this novel (or diary) five stars. Anais Nin writes in a way where you can (somewhat) relate to her thoughts, and even if you can't relate you can from some place in your mind or heart understand. Overall I enjoyed this volume of her diary and I plan on reading the others.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 14, 2023
The men should be honored to live in her reality.
February 2, 2018

Anaïs Nin verkar ha skrivit dagbok under hela sitt vuxna liv, och nu svider det att jag höll i den fem böcker tjocka, samlade utgåvan på Antikvariat Fausts rea för någon månad sen. 80 kronor! Men du, punktjejen som på min inrådan köpte den istället, hoppas du blev nöjd! Jag är inte alls bitter! ;)
”Incest” utgör ett utdrag ur Nins löpande dagböcker, och skildrar åren 1932-34 då Nin lever i Paris, är gift men samtidigt lever promiskuöst och är älskarinna åt flera män, bland andra sina båda psykoanalytiker (bla. Otto Rank) och soon-to-be-kändisförfattaren Henry Miller. Och nej, bokens titeln är inte symbolisk.
”..men jag är ingen vanlig kvinna. Specialstorlekar i intellekt, i sex. En kollektion av det fenomenala. Jag är den enda kvinnliga författare som inte nöjer sig med erotisk litteratur – jag lever på samma nivå som jag skriver – det finns ett egendomligt inbördes sammanhang.”
Hon bedrar inte för att hon vill männen illa, hon anstränger sig tvärtom noga för att inte såra någon. Men det är som att hon inte kan bromsa sin sexuella upptäckarlusta eller sin livsglöd. Antagligen söker hon också desperat efter bekräftelse i och med den i barndomen förlorade fadern som verkar ha lämnat ett så stort hål i henne. Detta lämnas åt oss att tolka, och med all psykoanalys och berättelsens karaktär är det svårt att låta bli. (Utan att ha kollat upp måste Nins historia utgöra material för otaliga Freudianska böcker.)
”Jag förråder aldrig mina svek. De är bara för mig.”
”Jag skulle aldrig kunna rymma från mina känslor, min känsla att livet inte är frihet utan kärlek, och att kärlek är slaveri, och att ingen expansion skulle betyda någonting om tre eller fyra personer offras på vägen.”
Henry Miller (under årtionden belagd med pornografistämpel och censurerad) är inte den som Nin är gift med, men som hon ser som sin primära, viktigaste relation, tills hennes far dyker upp. Eftersom ”Incest” är några valda år ur kontinuerligt skrivna dagböcker under 40 år så saknas mycket av bakgrundsberättelsen kring Nins far. Men han lämnade Anaïs och hennes familj tjugo år tidigare, och rev då ett rejält sår i sin dotter. När han återkommer in i hennes liv är Anaïs vuxen, attraktiv både till det yttre och inre, och de båda inleder en sexuell relation, verkligt unik litterär skildring. Nin förälskar sig i sin uppmålade bild av sin far, men förstår i verkligheten rätt snart att han bara kommer med elände.
Hon går i psykoanalys, har givetvis förfört sin analytiker, byter och börjar istället gå till den berömde Otto Rank, inleder så småningom en sexuell relation med denne också. När jag började läsa boken trodde jag att hon skulle förföra sin far på uppmaning av honom, som ett vrickat försök till frigörelse genom ”fadersmord”. Så är det inte, ingen säger åt Nin att ligga med sin far, även om gärningarna så småningom verkar få den frigörande konsekvensen ändå.
”I dessa dagböcker kan ni se att jag uppfostrades i spansk katolicism, att mina handlingar senare inte är onda, bara en kamp i protest mot ett fängelse.”
”Den djävul jag är besatt av och som driver mig att utöva min makt, tivngar mig att erövra män, ger min ingen glädje i förödelsen. Är detta ett bevis på någonting?”
Sidorna i ”Incest” är fulla av relationsbeskrivningar och reflektioner, så uppenbart skrivna av en som brinner, som känner, som märker och som analyserar minsta detalj, både i sig själv och i andra, utan att döma eller plocka bort. Det är lite dialog, få scener, men mycket reflektion. På dagbokens glödande vis är varje anteckning ärlig och utgör i stunden den stora sanningen, för att några dagar senare förändras.
Anaïs Nin skriver sin dagbok med psykoanalysens grundtanke som ledstjärna: Censurera inget, låt alla känslor och tankar komma till uttryck, för att sedan kunna analyseras för att förstå och på sikt frigöra. Denna brutala ärlighet, Nins ickedömande helhetsskildring av sig själv och sitt liv, utgör ett unikt vittnesmål om kvinnlig upptäckarlusta och sexualitet, och skulle vara viktig läsning för så många. Inte för att man nödvändigtvis måste tycka likadant som Nin eller tycka om det hon gör, men hon vågar sätta ord på saker och därigenom tvingar hon oss också att ta ställning till vårt eget inre.
När jag börjar googla inser jag att just den här ickedömande skildringen av en incestrelation (som riskerar att ta över, men inte utgör helheten av hennes författarskap) spelat roll för incestoffer världen över. (Lyssna tex här, läs här. Kolla förresten överlag in den fantastiska samlingen av Anaïs Nin-information på The Official Anaïs Nin Blog. Britt Arenander figurerar tex. i podcast nr 29)
Som om incest och otrohet inte vore tillräckligt provokativt hinner Nin också bli gravid och skildra en obehagligt sen abort (+6 månader :S ), och jag tycker att det är oerhört intressant att läsa hur hon kopplar samman ensamhet och moderskapet. (Det är lätt att glömma hur hon lever och skriver detta i början av trettiotalet!)
”Jag vägrar fortsätta vara mor, jag har varit mor till mina bröder, till de svaga, till de fattiga, till Hugh, till mina älskare, till min far. Jag vill leva enbart för kärleken till mannen, och som konstnär. […] Inte moderskap, uppoffring, osjälviskhet. Moderskap, det betyder ensamhet igen, att ge, skydda, tjäna, kapitulera. Nej. Nej. Nej.”
Nin är genom boken säker på Millers geni, trots att han inte slagit igenom. Hon litar inte på de redaktörer och utgivare som säger att hon har större talang än honom, och hon vågar inte berätta det för Miller eftersom hon vet att han skulle bli rasande. Jag sliter däremot mitt hår över att hon inte ser sin egen storhet. Men det kanske också har att göra med att dagboken inte är officiell eller tänkt att gå i tryck.
Jag uppehåller mig länge med tankar om dagboken faktiskt är verklig, eller om det snarare är Nins sätt att leva ut förbjudna tankar genom litteraturen. Även om det säkert är ett sätt för mig att skydda min inrutade tillvaro mot hennes glödande aptit planterar Nin själv såna tankar i texten:
”Det som rinner ur mig i samtal eller handlingar blir sällan rekonstruerat när jag skriver. Det som bevaras, går till samlingarna, är det som exploderar i frukbar ensamhet. Det är därför konstnären är den ensammaste människan i hela världen, därför att han lever, krigar, dör och återföds ensam, och alltid ensam.”
”Författarens privilegium – rätten att alltid förtala i efterhand.”
”Jag vägrar falla in i den universiella pessimismen och trögheten. Jag sätter på mig skygglappar, stoppar vaxproppar i öronen. Mig kommer de skjuta medan jag dansar.”
Men hon diskuterar upprepat dagboken som ett sätt att få grepp om den ogreppbara Anaïs Nin, och ångesten över att någon av alla hennes män ska hitta den utgör ett annat övergripande tema, vid något tillfälle lämnar hon den framme, som ett litet rop efter att verkligheten ska hinna ifatt henne. Det gör den inte utan först på sextiotalet publiceras utdrag ur de här dagböckerna, och på nittiotalet trycks de ocensurerat, eftersom alla berörda personer då avlidit. Jag har inte läst på om hur publiceringen gick till, det finns delikata etiska bekymmer med den, men resultatet gläder mig. En litterär skattkista av en unik författare.
”Vad behöver världen – den illusion jag gav i livet, eller den sanning jag gav när jag skrev?”
frågar Nin och jag vill ropa: Din skrivna sanning, Anaïs! Vi behöver din skrivna sanning! Tack för att du vågade berätta! Det här är litteratur när det är som bäst. Ett hypnotiskt medryckande språk som ger mig stora viktiga tankar om skam och skuld, som genom sin ärliga skildring hjälper mig se världen med klarare blick. Fenomen, känslor, upplevelser som vi skäms för upphör inte finnas för att vi låtsas att de inte finns. De hanteras genom att få komma till uttryck, och Nins böcker hjälper oss på vägen.
(Henry Millers böcker ”I stenbockens vändkrets” och ”I kräftans vändkrets” verkar handla om just den här tiden. Biografisk, erotisk, togs felaktigt emot av vissa kritiker som ”ett underbart ironisk skildring av ung man på drift” (Miller skrev inte ironiskt).
En annan underhållande detalj kommer i slutet när Henry Miller bjuder hem Aleister Crowley, som vägrar se Anais Nin i ögonen, eftersom han ser henne som en besvärjerska som förtrollar män. Visste Crowley något om Nins liv, eller var han en sån människokännare?)
Anaïs Nin verkar ha skrivit dagbok under hela sitt vuxna liv, och nu svider det att jag höll i den fem böcker tjocka, samlade utgåvan på Antikvariat Fausts rea för någon månad sen. 80 kronor! Men du, punktjejen som på min inrådan köpte den istället, hoppas du blev nöjd! Jag är inte alls bitter! ;)
”Incest” utgör ett utdrag ur Nins löpande dagböcker, och skildrar åren 1932-34 då Nin lever i Paris, är gift men samtidigt lever promiskuöst och är älskarinna åt flera män, bland andra sina båda psykoanalytiker (bla. Otto Rank) och soon-to-be-kändisförfattaren Henry Miller. Och nej, bokens titeln är inte symbolisk.
”..men jag är ingen vanlig kvinna. Specialstorlekar i intellekt, i sex. En kollektion av det fenomenala. Jag är den enda kvinnliga författare som inte nöjer sig med erotisk litteratur – jag lever på samma nivå som jag skriver – det finns ett egendomligt inbördes sammanhang.”
Hon bedrar inte för att hon vill männen illa, hon anstränger sig tvärtom noga för att inte såra någon. Men det är som att hon inte kan bromsa sin sexuella upptäckarlusta eller sin livsglöd. Antagligen söker hon också desperat efter bekräftelse i och med den i barndomen förlorade fadern som verkar ha lämnat ett så stort hål i henne. Detta lämnas åt oss att tolka, och med all psykoanalys och berättelsens karaktär är det svårt att låta bli. (Utan att ha kollat upp måste Nins historia utgöra material för otaliga Freudianska böcker.)
”Jag förråder aldrig mina svek. De är bara för mig.”
”Jag skulle aldrig kunna rymma från mina känslor, min känsla att livet inte är frihet utan kärlek, och att kärlek är slaveri, och att ingen expansion skulle betyda någonting om tre eller fyra personer offras på vägen.”
Henry Miller (under årtionden belagd med pornografistämpel och censurerad) är inte den som Nin är gift med, men som hon ser som sin primära, viktigaste relation, tills hennes far dyker upp. Eftersom ”Incest” är några valda år ur kontinuerligt skrivna dagböcker under 40 år så saknas mycket av bakgrundsberättelsen kring Nins far. Men han lämnade Anaïs och hennes familj tjugo år tidigare, och rev då ett rejält sår i sin dotter. När han återkommer in i hennes liv är Anaïs vuxen, attraktiv både till det yttre och inre, och de båda inleder en sexuell relation, verkligt unik litterär skildring. Nin förälskar sig i sin uppmålade bild av sin far, men förstår i verkligheten rätt snart att han bara kommer med elände.
Hon går i psykoanalys, har givetvis förfört sin analytiker, byter och börjar istället gå till den berömde Otto Rank, inleder så småningom en sexuell relation med denne också. När jag började läsa boken trodde jag att hon skulle förföra sin far på uppmaning av honom, som ett vrickat försök till frigörelse genom ”fadersmord”. Så är det inte, ingen säger åt Nin att ligga med sin far, även om gärningarna så småningom verkar få den frigörande konsekvensen ändå.
”I dessa dagböcker kan ni se att jag uppfostrades i spansk katolicism, att mina handlingar senare inte är onda, bara en kamp i protest mot ett fängelse.”
”Den djävul jag är besatt av och som driver mig att utöva min makt, tivngar mig att erövra män, ger min ingen glädje i förödelsen. Är detta ett bevis på någonting?”
Sidorna i ”Incest” är fulla av relationsbeskrivningar och reflektioner, så uppenbart skrivna av en som brinner, som känner, som märker och som analyserar minsta detalj, både i sig själv och i andra, utan att döma eller plocka bort. Det är lite dialog, få scener, men mycket reflektion. På dagbokens glödande vis är varje anteckning ärlig och utgör i stunden den stora sanningen, för att några dagar senare förändras.
Anaïs Nin skriver sin dagbok med psykoanalysens grundtanke som ledstjärna: Censurera inget, låt alla känslor och tankar komma till uttryck, för att sedan kunna analyseras för att förstå och på sikt frigöra. Denna brutala ärlighet, Nins ickedömande helhetsskildring av sig själv och sitt liv, utgör ett unikt vittnesmål om kvinnlig upptäckarlusta och sexualitet, och skulle vara viktig läsning för så många. Inte för att man nödvändigtvis måste tycka likadant som Nin eller tycka om det hon gör, men hon vågar sätta ord på saker och därigenom tvingar hon oss också att ta ställning till vårt eget inre.
När jag börjar googla inser jag att just den här ickedömande skildringen av en incestrelation (som riskerar att ta över, men inte utgör helheten av hennes författarskap) spelat roll för incestoffer världen över. (Lyssna tex här, läs här. Kolla förresten överlag in den fantastiska samlingen av Anaïs Nin-information på The Official Anaïs Nin Blog. Britt Arenander figurerar tex. i podcast nr 29)
Som om incest och otrohet inte vore tillräckligt provokativt hinner Nin också bli gravid och skildra en obehagligt sen abort (+6 månader :S ), och jag tycker att det är oerhört intressant att läsa hur hon kopplar samman ensamhet och moderskapet. (Det är lätt att glömma hur hon lever och skriver detta i början av trettiotalet!)
”Jag vägrar fortsätta vara mor, jag har varit mor till mina bröder, till de svaga, till de fattiga, till Hugh, till mina älskare, till min far. Jag vill leva enbart för kärleken till mannen, och som konstnär. […] Inte moderskap, uppoffring, osjälviskhet. Moderskap, det betyder ensamhet igen, att ge, skydda, tjäna, kapitulera. Nej. Nej. Nej.”
Nin är genom boken säker på Millers geni, trots att han inte slagit igenom. Hon litar inte på de redaktörer och utgivare som säger att hon har större talang än honom, och hon vågar inte berätta det för Miller eftersom hon vet att han skulle bli rasande. Jag sliter däremot mitt hår över att hon inte ser sin egen storhet. Men det kanske också har att göra med att dagboken inte är officiell eller tänkt att gå i tryck.
Jag uppehåller mig länge med tankar om dagboken faktiskt är verklig, eller om det snarare är Nins sätt att leva ut förbjudna tankar genom litteraturen. Även om det säkert är ett sätt för mig att skydda min inrutade tillvaro mot hennes glödande aptit planterar Nin själv såna tankar i texten:
”Det som rinner ur mig i samtal eller handlingar blir sällan rekonstruerat när jag skriver. Det som bevaras, går till samlingarna, är det som exploderar i frukbar ensamhet. Det är därför konstnären är den ensammaste människan i hela världen, därför att han lever, krigar, dör och återföds ensam, och alltid ensam.”
”Författarens privilegium – rätten att alltid förtala i efterhand.”
”Jag vägrar falla in i den universiella pessimismen och trögheten. Jag sätter på mig skygglappar, stoppar vaxproppar i öronen. Mig kommer de skjuta medan jag dansar.”
Men hon diskuterar upprepat dagboken som ett sätt att få grepp om den ogreppbara Anaïs Nin, och ångesten över att någon av alla hennes män ska hitta den utgör ett annat övergripande tema, vid något tillfälle lämnar hon den framme, som ett litet rop efter att verkligheten ska hinna ifatt henne. Det gör den inte utan först på sextiotalet publiceras utdrag ur de här dagböckerna, och på nittiotalet trycks de ocensurerat, eftersom alla berörda personer då avlidit. Jag har inte läst på om hur publiceringen gick till, det finns delikata etiska bekymmer med den, men resultatet gläder mig. En litterär skattkista av en unik författare.
”Vad behöver världen – den illusion jag gav i livet, eller den sanning jag gav när jag skrev?”
frågar Nin och jag vill ropa: Din skrivna sanning, Anaïs! Vi behöver din skrivna sanning! Tack för att du vågade berätta! Det här är litteratur när det är som bäst. Ett hypnotiskt medryckande språk som ger mig stora viktiga tankar om skam och skuld, som genom sin ärliga skildring hjälper mig se världen med klarare blick. Fenomen, känslor, upplevelser som vi skäms för upphör inte finnas för att vi låtsas att de inte finns. De hanteras genom att få komma till uttryck, och Nins böcker hjälper oss på vägen.
(Henry Millers böcker ”I stenbockens vändkrets” och ”I kräftans vändkrets” verkar handla om just den här tiden. Biografisk, erotisk, togs felaktigt emot av vissa kritiker som ”ett underbart ironisk skildring av ung man på drift” (Miller skrev inte ironiskt).
En annan underhållande detalj kommer i slutet när Henry Miller bjuder hem Aleister Crowley, som vägrar se Anais Nin i ögonen, eftersom han ser henne som en besvärjerska som förtrollar män. Visste Crowley något om Nins liv, eller var han en sån människokännare?)
December 31, 2025
Oh, Dios, ¿por qué me entrego a quienes son incapaces de amar?
Hoy acabándome los libros que no quiero que pasen conmigo al 2026. Esto se me hizo largo de verdad: al final los diarios inexpurgados, al incluir tanta información del marido, son bastante más largos. El volumen de Henry y June lo devoré, me dejó con ganas de más por lo que también devoré el principio de Incesto. Pero luego se me empezó a hacer bola. Me escuché el capítulo del podcast de "Esta noche libro" después de volver a Alemania y haber hablado sobre él con Sara González. Me dieron ganas otra vez de acabarlo. Pero no lo retomé hasta ayer.
Me alegro de haber leído esas últimas páginas, en las que se analiza con Rank, empieza una relación amorosa con él, decide dejar a Hugh (por fin), planea ir a Nueva York, tiene un aborto. Creo que fueron las mejores páginas del libro. Por ejemplo, de la primera cita de psicoanálisis con Rank:
En este libro queda aún más claro cómo Anaís es el contrapunto femenino de Henry Miller (y, por ello, bastante más interesante como escritora):
Hoy acabándome los libros que no quiero que pasen conmigo al 2026. Esto se me hizo largo de verdad: al final los diarios inexpurgados, al incluir tanta información del marido, son bastante más largos. El volumen de Henry y June lo devoré, me dejó con ganas de más por lo que también devoré el principio de Incesto. Pero luego se me empezó a hacer bola. Me escuché el capítulo del podcast de "Esta noche libro" después de volver a Alemania y haber hablado sobre él con Sara González. Me dieron ganas otra vez de acabarlo. Pero no lo retomé hasta ayer.
Me alegro de haber leído esas últimas páginas, en las que se analiza con Rank, empieza una relación amorosa con él, decide dejar a Hugh (por fin), planea ir a Nueva York, tiene un aborto. Creo que fueron las mejores páginas del libro. Por ejemplo, de la primera cita de psicoanálisis con Rank:
Inmediatamente supe que hablábamos el mismo idioma. Rank va más allá del psicoanálisis. Dijo: «El psicoanálisis subraya lo que la gente tiene en común, yo subrayó las diferencias. Los psicoanalistas intentan que los pacientes recuperen un determinado nivel de normalidad. Yo intento que cada persona se adapte a su propio universo. El instinto creador es algo aparte».Por supuesto, decidí seguir leyendo por seguir los episodios y leer de mi propia mano sobre su relación incestuosa. Desde luego, que toda su familia dijera luego que es mentira... no lo creo. No tenía ninguna necesidad de inventarse tanto (aunque es cierto, que es muy fabuladora, tampoco me sorprendería si no hubiera una gota de verdad, pero no suele ser el caso). Su padre me parece un pusilánime y de los personajes masculinos de este libro que más aborrezco, obviamente detrás de Allendy, que es el peor de todos.
Esta noche estoy triste. Ironías torturantes de la vida. Di a Henry todo lo que mi Padre necesita. Dislocaciones. Ahora no puedo dar a Padre la misma plenitud de mi pasión. Estoy dividida. Con todo, es cierto que amé en Henry las semejanzas con mi Padre.Después de esta cita, escribí: "supongo que el psicoanálisis, al exponer claramente que todos tenemos deseo de acostarnos con nuestro Padre, le da la coartada perfecta a Anaís para que pueda follarse al suyo y sentirse tranquila". De todos modos, sentí que abusaría de la terminología psicoanalítica en estas ocasiones, y me sorprendió que bueno, no más que en Henry y June. El hecho de que también dejara a su padre por "falta de interés", no sé si me parece maduro o inmaduro.
En este libro queda aún más claro cómo Anaís es el contrapunto femenino de Henry Miller (y, por ello, bastante más interesante como escritora):
Me produjo la mayor sorpresa que he tenido nunca con respecto a mis escritos. En mitad de la cena, me dijo: «Lo que no entiendo es que vengas a Londres con dos manuscritos de Henry Miller cuando resulta que eres mucho mejor escritora que él, mucho más madura». (...) ¿Y Rank? ¿Qué opina Rank de Henry como pensador? ¿Por qué me preguntó Rank un día «por qué Henry ha escrito sobre Lawrence, igual que tú, qué curiosa coincidencia»?
Su pregunta me ofendió, porque insinuaba una duda, una duda loca que a veces me asalta: Las mejores páginas de su «Autorretrato» están tomadas de «Alraune». Sólo que tienen siempre más poder, una expansión masculina. Pero es que los dos nos imitamos. Diablos. Todos nos imitamos.
October 5, 2024
È più facile rimanere sul pelo dell’acqua, bagnarsi appena le dita dei piedi e rabbrividire per quanto l’acqua sia fredda, inospitale, respingente. È più facile rimanere in superficie, giudicare le cose dell’alto, non lasciarsi toccare, non lasciarsi trascinare a fondo dai tentacoli dei nostri sogni, delle nostre paure, delle nostre fragili e banali vicende umane.
Si può rimanere spettatori della vita, lasciare che questa ci scorra addosso come un fiume in piena che non risparmia nessuno senza comprendere mai le conseguenze della nostra inerzia, della nostra apatia. Vedere ad ogni angolo e in ogni persona un nemico, un ostacolo alla nostra realizzazione personale; ogni evento diventa la causa del nostro fallimento, abdichiamo al nostro io alla ricerca di una falsa sicurezza, di un nido in cui nasconderci per sentirci protetti, certi che nulla potrà più farci del male; un nido che assume, ben presto intorno a noi, le fattezze di una gabbia spessa e resistente, dalla quale diventa impossibile fuggire.
Oppure si può rischiare, trattenere il fiato quel tanto che basta per scivolare giù, lasciarsi alle spalle la superficie, la luce del sole, e, finalmente, esplorare le tenebre dei fondali, i luoghi oscuri e prima insondabili della nostra anima, guardare negli occhi il mostro che pensiamo di essere, accettare le sue zanne, la sua fame, il fuoco che arde e brucia noi stessi e gli altri.
Anaïs Nin è nevrotica, febbrile, incosciente, ardente, non ha paura della cenere che seguirà la passione, non ha paura di sbagliarsi, di cercare in ogni uomo che ama il riflesso di qualcosa che ha perso quando era ancora molto giovane. L’abbandono del padre brucia dentro di lei come una ferita ancora aperta e sanguinante. Ricorda ancora con una lucidità sorprendente quando lo vide varcare la soglia della loro casa per l’ultima volta, come intuì che sarebbe stato per sempre e come si aggrappò disperatamente alla giacca del padre per trattenerlo a sé, per non vedersi tradita e lasciata da quell’uomo imperscrutabile e severo che amava alla follia.
Continua a leggere qui: https://parlaredilibri.wordpress.com/...
Si può rimanere spettatori della vita, lasciare che questa ci scorra addosso come un fiume in piena che non risparmia nessuno senza comprendere mai le conseguenze della nostra inerzia, della nostra apatia. Vedere ad ogni angolo e in ogni persona un nemico, un ostacolo alla nostra realizzazione personale; ogni evento diventa la causa del nostro fallimento, abdichiamo al nostro io alla ricerca di una falsa sicurezza, di un nido in cui nasconderci per sentirci protetti, certi che nulla potrà più farci del male; un nido che assume, ben presto intorno a noi, le fattezze di una gabbia spessa e resistente, dalla quale diventa impossibile fuggire.
Oppure si può rischiare, trattenere il fiato quel tanto che basta per scivolare giù, lasciarsi alle spalle la superficie, la luce del sole, e, finalmente, esplorare le tenebre dei fondali, i luoghi oscuri e prima insondabili della nostra anima, guardare negli occhi il mostro che pensiamo di essere, accettare le sue zanne, la sua fame, il fuoco che arde e brucia noi stessi e gli altri.
Anaïs Nin è nevrotica, febbrile, incosciente, ardente, non ha paura della cenere che seguirà la passione, non ha paura di sbagliarsi, di cercare in ogni uomo che ama il riflesso di qualcosa che ha perso quando era ancora molto giovane. L’abbandono del padre brucia dentro di lei come una ferita ancora aperta e sanguinante. Ricorda ancora con una lucidità sorprendente quando lo vide varcare la soglia della loro casa per l’ultima volta, come intuì che sarebbe stato per sempre e come si aggrappò disperatamente alla giacca del padre per trattenerlo a sé, per non vedersi tradita e lasciata da quell’uomo imperscrutabile e severo che amava alla follia.
Continua a leggere qui: https://parlaredilibri.wordpress.com/...
January 29, 2025
Postando esse (bem) atrasado, lido ano passado.
“Você é uma criança sem pai, do mesmo jeito que eu fui uma criança sem pai. Você é nascido de um homem, mas ainda assim não tem pai. Esse homem que casou comigo é que foi meu pai. Eu não seria capaz de vê-lo tomando conta de outra pessoa e voltar a ser órfã. O carinho dele é o único carinho que conheci. [...] E no íntimo dessa mulher ainda havia uma criança sem pai, uma criança que não morreu quando devia ter morrido. Ainda havia o fantasma de uma garotinha se lamuriando eternamente lá dentro, chorando a morte do pai. Esse homem que casou comigo cuidou dela, e agora, caso viesse, você o tomaria por seu pai e esse pequeno fantasma nunca mais me deixaria em paz. [...] Você seria abandonado e sofreria como eu sofri com o abandono de meu pai, que não era um pai, mas sim um artista, uma criança. Seria melhor morrer, filho, antes de nascer; seria melhor morrer do que ser abandonado, pois você passaria a vida como uma assombração, em busca de um pai perdido, de um fragmento de seu corpo e de sua alma, de um fragmento perdido do seu próprio eu. Não há pais no mundo. A figura do pai é a sombra de Deus Pai projetada sobre o mundo, uma sombra maior que o homem. E você sentiria uma grande devoção e tentaria encostar nessa sombra, sonhando dia e noite com seu calor e sua grandeza, sonhando que ela o envolve e embala seu sono, maior que uma rede, grande como o céu, grande o bastante para comportar sua alma e todos seus temores, maior que homens e mulheres, que igrejas e casas, a sombra de um pai mágico que não está em lugar nenhum – a sombra de Deus Pai.”
Não há pais no mundo.
“Você é uma criança sem pai, do mesmo jeito que eu fui uma criança sem pai. Você é nascido de um homem, mas ainda assim não tem pai. Esse homem que casou comigo é que foi meu pai. Eu não seria capaz de vê-lo tomando conta de outra pessoa e voltar a ser órfã. O carinho dele é o único carinho que conheci. [...] E no íntimo dessa mulher ainda havia uma criança sem pai, uma criança que não morreu quando devia ter morrido. Ainda havia o fantasma de uma garotinha se lamuriando eternamente lá dentro, chorando a morte do pai. Esse homem que casou comigo cuidou dela, e agora, caso viesse, você o tomaria por seu pai e esse pequeno fantasma nunca mais me deixaria em paz. [...] Você seria abandonado e sofreria como eu sofri com o abandono de meu pai, que não era um pai, mas sim um artista, uma criança. Seria melhor morrer, filho, antes de nascer; seria melhor morrer do que ser abandonado, pois você passaria a vida como uma assombração, em busca de um pai perdido, de um fragmento de seu corpo e de sua alma, de um fragmento perdido do seu próprio eu. Não há pais no mundo. A figura do pai é a sombra de Deus Pai projetada sobre o mundo, uma sombra maior que o homem. E você sentiria uma grande devoção e tentaria encostar nessa sombra, sonhando dia e noite com seu calor e sua grandeza, sonhando que ela o envolve e embala seu sono, maior que uma rede, grande como o céu, grande o bastante para comportar sua alma e todos seus temores, maior que homens e mulheres, que igrejas e casas, a sombra de um pai mágico que não está em lugar nenhum – a sombra de Deus Pai.”
Não há pais no mundo.
December 10, 2025
این کتاب، که البته به صورت رسمی تو ایران چاپ نشده و من چاپ افست رو خوندم، خاطرات آنائیس نین در سالهای پرتنش زندگیش بین ۱۹۳۲ و ۱۹۳۴ هست.
نین شاید معروفترین "خاطرهنویس" و از اولین زنهایی هست که به ادبیات اروتیکا پرداخته. زندگی شخصی نین سرشار از اِفِیرهای اروتیک با لاورهای متعدد در حین زندگی با شوهرش هیو هستش.
برای درک کامل افراد و وقایع و تاثیری که روی همدیگه گذاشتن (چه شخصی و چه ادبی) حتما بایوگرافی آخر کتاب رو بخونید. مثلا یکی از اشخاصی که با نین وارد رابطه میشه دکتر otto rank هستش که روانکاو مشهوری هستش که بهش لقب "پسر فروید" رو دادن. معروفترین این افیرها ، رابطهی نین با هنری میلر هستش که در چندین کتاب هم بهش اشاره شده. آشتایی با جون هم خالی از لطف نیست که گرچه سواد ادبی نداره و یک رقاص هست ولی تاثیر شگرفی بر میلر و نین گذاشته. عجیبترین رابطه، رابطهی نین با پدرشه.
لازم به ذکره که این خاطرات بعد از مرگ نین چاپ شدن. و مقدمهی این کتاب از رابرت پل هستش که همسر دوم نین (بدون جدا شدن از هیو، همسر اول) هست.
اسمهای شاخص زیادی در این اثر به چشم میخوره، دکتر رنا الندی، آرتاد بازیگر، ربکا وست نویسنده، لارنس نویسندهی مشهور که اولین اثر نین بررسی اثرشه و خیلیهای دیگه.
شخصیت نین حالت دوگانهای داره به نظرم، از طرفی به دلیل اینکه پدرش خانوادهش رو ترک میکنه و با معشوق جوون خودش میره، تشنهی عشق و محبته و به مردا به عنوان چشمهای برای محبت نگاه میکنه. از طرفی شخصیت خودشیفته و خودبرتر بینی داره که بدون در نظر گرفتن مرزهای اخلاقی وارد رابطه با مردهای متعدد میشه و اونها رو اغوا میکنه و به این کارش هم به چشم دستاورد و پیروزی نگاه میکنه.
Another trophy earned!
به شخصه جو فعال ادبی، فلسفی و روانکاوانهی اروپای این سالها رو دوست دارم. ملاقات گستردهی این آدمها با هم و تاثیری که روی هم میذارن، فضای دیالکتیکی برای خلق هنر و آثار علمی فراهم میکنه.
نین شاید معروفترین "خاطرهنویس" و از اولین زنهایی هست که به ادبیات اروتیکا پرداخته. زندگی شخصی نین سرشار از اِفِیرهای اروتیک با لاورهای متعدد در حین زندگی با شوهرش هیو هستش.
برای درک کامل افراد و وقایع و تاثیری که روی همدیگه گذاشتن (چه شخصی و چه ادبی) حتما بایوگرافی آخر کتاب رو بخونید. مثلا یکی از اشخاصی که با نین وارد رابطه میشه دکتر otto rank هستش که روانکاو مشهوری هستش که بهش لقب "پسر فروید" رو دادن. معروفترین این افیرها ، رابطهی نین با هنری میلر هستش که در چندین کتاب هم بهش اشاره شده. آشتایی با جون هم خالی از لطف نیست که گرچه سواد ادبی نداره و یک رقاص هست ولی تاثیر شگرفی بر میلر و نین گذاشته. عجیبترین رابطه، رابطهی نین با پدرشه.
لازم به ذکره که این خاطرات بعد از مرگ نین چاپ شدن. و مقدمهی این کتاب از رابرت پل هستش که همسر دوم نین (بدون جدا شدن از هیو، همسر اول) هست.
اسمهای شاخص زیادی در این اثر به چشم میخوره، دکتر رنا الندی، آرتاد بازیگر، ربکا وست نویسنده، لارنس نویسندهی مشهور که اولین اثر نین بررسی اثرشه و خیلیهای دیگه.
شخصیت نین حالت دوگانهای داره به نظرم، از طرفی به دلیل اینکه پدرش خانوادهش رو ترک میکنه و با معشوق جوون خودش میره، تشنهی عشق و محبته و به مردا به عنوان چشمهای برای محبت نگاه میکنه. از طرفی شخصیت خودشیفته و خودبرتر بینی داره که بدون در نظر گرفتن مرزهای اخلاقی وارد رابطه با مردهای متعدد میشه و اونها رو اغوا میکنه و به این کارش هم به چشم دستاورد و پیروزی نگاه میکنه.
Another trophy earned!
به شخصه جو فعال ادبی، فلسفی و روانکاوانهی اروپای این سالها رو دوست دارم. ملاقات گستردهی این آدمها با هم و تاثیری که روی هم میذارن، فضای دیالکتیکی برای خلق هنر و آثار علمی فراهم میکنه.
August 20, 2025
J'ai beaucoup aimé l'écriture d'Anaïs Nin, limpide et structurée, elle décrit très bien les rapports humains, J'ai du mal à quitter son roman.
extrait : - Je vis désormais à une telle vitesse que les saisons me prennent par surprise. Le printemps m'est tombé dessus inattendu, enivrant.
Avant je l'attendais longuement, aujourd'hui il me viole ; il me saisit avec ma robe déboutonnée, mes cheveux en broussaille, courant dans un taxi, je suis dans un état de délire que je m'imagine encore dans les bras de Henry soulevé par un second orgasme et je m'affale, haletante sur mon siège, tandis que la voiture roule dans le printemps.
extrait : - Je vis désormais à une telle vitesse que les saisons me prennent par surprise. Le printemps m'est tombé dessus inattendu, enivrant.
Avant je l'attendais longuement, aujourd'hui il me viole ; il me saisit avec ma robe déboutonnée, mes cheveux en broussaille, courant dans un taxi, je suis dans un état de délire que je m'imagine encore dans les bras de Henry soulevé par un second orgasme et je m'affale, haletante sur mon siège, tandis que la voiture roule dans le printemps.
April 12, 2021
Un diario tan íntimo que no debió ser publicado. Si bien retrata una época, produce cansancio, hastío, casi repugnancia. A pesar de ser escrito por una mujer, expresa un machismo enorme, cómo el que los psicoanalistas de la época padecían. Me distancia mucho del psicoanálisis que solo logra reforzar y justificar ciertas características de personalidades como la de una Anais tremendamente narcisista.
February 27, 2015
After years of knowing Anais Nin only as a crossword clue (many of those years believing her to be a him), I thought I should go ahead and pick up some of Nin's writing, most specifically, some of her journals as she is known to me most as a journalist, and then vaguely as an eroticist.
The vagaries of the library resulted in the volume of journal I checked out being the 2nd half of the unexpurgated account of Anais Nin's affair with Henry Miller. The timeline also covers Nin's affairs with her two psychoanalysts; Miller's wife, June; Antonin Artaud; and her father. That is quite a few people for two years, especially considering that she was involved with most of them simultaneously. Not to mention the fact that she was married during this period as well.
Leaving aside all the accounts of her sexual encounters, perhaps the best thing about Anais Nin's journal for me was the opportunity to read another woman's thoughts, and be able to relate to them in a different way from men's autobiographical accounts. Nin explores thoroughly in her journal what it means to be a woman, a married woman, an unfaithful woman. She discusses the difficulties she has focusing on her own writing when she is supporting the writing both of her husband, Hugh Guiler, and that of Henry Miller. Her criticism and feedback become so necessary to Miller that when she vacations away from him, he is unable to write, edit, or otherwise work. Nonetheless, she has the continual sense that her own writing, although perhaps not as "important" as Miller's, is excellent, and has its own place in the world. Incidental people that she meets throughout the journal constantly tell her that her own writing is far superior to that of Miller's, and that she should leave him in order to focus on her own work. This conflict, although not central to the narrative, is vital to it. Nin struggles with her need to be a provider to the men in her life, the needs the men have for her to provide for them, and her desire to be protected, cared for, and provided for herself. Essentially, Nin articulates beautifully the continual feminine conflict of being a wife and mother while being "the weaker sex".
Towards the end of this particular volume, however, Nin begins to seem rather fickle. She cannot decide whether she still loves Henry. She cannot decide if she still loves her father. She constantly wavers between which of her many lovers is her favorite. Nin seems to lose a sense of self in her efforts to juggle, care for, and satisfy all of her men. She fades beneath the questions about which men to stay with, which to jostle. The last hundred or so pages of the volume were therefore unsatisfying for me. The previously strong, independent Nin becomes subject; dependent on Henry for his neediness; dependent on her analyst, Rank, for his approval.
I had intended to check out other volumes of Nin's journals, but after consideration, I think the one volume is all I can swallow at the moment. Perhaps I will dabble in more at a later point, but not likely within this 50 books cycle.
The vagaries of the library resulted in the volume of journal I checked out being the 2nd half of the unexpurgated account of Anais Nin's affair with Henry Miller. The timeline also covers Nin's affairs with her two psychoanalysts; Miller's wife, June; Antonin Artaud; and her father. That is quite a few people for two years, especially considering that she was involved with most of them simultaneously. Not to mention the fact that she was married during this period as well.
Leaving aside all the accounts of her sexual encounters, perhaps the best thing about Anais Nin's journal for me was the opportunity to read another woman's thoughts, and be able to relate to them in a different way from men's autobiographical accounts. Nin explores thoroughly in her journal what it means to be a woman, a married woman, an unfaithful woman. She discusses the difficulties she has focusing on her own writing when she is supporting the writing both of her husband, Hugh Guiler, and that of Henry Miller. Her criticism and feedback become so necessary to Miller that when she vacations away from him, he is unable to write, edit, or otherwise work. Nonetheless, she has the continual sense that her own writing, although perhaps not as "important" as Miller's, is excellent, and has its own place in the world. Incidental people that she meets throughout the journal constantly tell her that her own writing is far superior to that of Miller's, and that she should leave him in order to focus on her own work. This conflict, although not central to the narrative, is vital to it. Nin struggles with her need to be a provider to the men in her life, the needs the men have for her to provide for them, and her desire to be protected, cared for, and provided for herself. Essentially, Nin articulates beautifully the continual feminine conflict of being a wife and mother while being "the weaker sex".
Towards the end of this particular volume, however, Nin begins to seem rather fickle. She cannot decide whether she still loves Henry. She cannot decide if she still loves her father. She constantly wavers between which of her many lovers is her favorite. Nin seems to lose a sense of self in her efforts to juggle, care for, and satisfy all of her men. She fades beneath the questions about which men to stay with, which to jostle. The last hundred or so pages of the volume were therefore unsatisfying for me. The previously strong, independent Nin becomes subject; dependent on Henry for his neediness; dependent on her analyst, Rank, for his approval.
I had intended to check out other volumes of Nin's journals, but after consideration, I think the one volume is all I can swallow at the moment. Perhaps I will dabble in more at a later point, but not likely within this 50 books cycle.
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