Fire brings to life a mid-1930s Louveciennes, Montparnasse/Paris, Philadelphia, New York. The creatives' scene, full of interesting characters, and Anaïs is deeply involved and perceptive in her personal relationships. Her diaries are more interesting to me than her fiction. In her own words: “I make all my efforts in life; all my dynamism is in life. In writing I am passive, flowing, drugged…” The diaries are alive, pulsing with history and with the energy of a real woman and her real life, the men and women whose lives she touched (“On top of a crumbling world. The more it crumbles the more I feel like asserting the possibility of personal love, personal relationships...").
I loved the Rebecca West appearances with fabulous character/lines, as recounted by Anaïs: “‘You know, those rats they brought up without magnesium or something, and they lost their maternal love. Well, Americans—there is some element lacking. What is it? One doesn't say soul. One finds other names for it. It's everything deep; everything deep is lacking.’”
There is really so much to admire: her creative process, in her own words, in writing fiction, how she cultivates her home(s), dresses, travels, seeking beauty everywhere, how she loves, how she touches the lives of friends and lovers. A marvelous life, rich in insight: on art and abstraction, on analysis, womanhood, female friendship, the polar needs for novelty and for stability, on beauty, symbolism, with incredible attention, willingness, receptivity. Life, lived to its very fullest.
“Analysis is a hothouse, a hastening of wisdom and growth; nevertheless, the life experience must be actually lived out and through, completely, in spite of it; everything that is lived out in the imagination is poison. Wisdom is not... a substitute for life…”
“Tendue vers l’impossible toujours, moi. I’m always reaching for the impossible. When I write I eat my neurosis. Out of my neurosis I write.”
"...fear of the world produces crystals in writing. Faultless, crystallized phrases, perfection and hard polish of inhuman things... But such crystals are repulsive to people. No human imperfections..."
"I feel joy in yielding-- like a religious expiation of the self. This enormous self in me, so egotistical, so hungry, so devouring. I must annihilate it, and so I bow, I bow."
"Life is a dance to me, a profound, sacred, joyous, mysterious, symbolic, soulful dance…. Through the marketplaces, the whorehouses, the abattoirs, the butcher shops, the laboratories, hospitals, Montparnasse, I walk with my dream unfurled and lose myself in my own labyrinths, and the dream unfurled carries me..."