Collages

by Anaïs Nin

Collages explores a world of fantasy and dreams through an eccentric young painter. A radical work in its time (1964), Anais Nin dispensed with normal structural convention and allowed her characters to wander freely in space and time in an attempt to describe life with the disconnected clarity of a dream in which hip and freakish lives intersect or merge.

Perhaps reflecting a developing contemporary awareness of abstract art, Collages is a series of impressions rather than a coherent whole, a shifting notebook indelibly inscribed with Nin's humour, invention and unrivalled gift for sensuous description.

"A handful of perfectly told fables" -- Times Literary Supplement

Genres: Fiction, Classics, Short Stories, France, Art, Novels, Literature

122 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1964

About the author

Writer 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%...

Reviews

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Although this is a novel, in the traditional sense it is not. Collages, which I'd describe as a light-hearted mood piece, reads like a chain of vignettes, a sequence of portraits of people taken from real life, revolving around the central threading character of Renate, a young woman painter based upon a close friend of Nin’s. The background is mostly Los Angeles and its surroundings, in which various pieces of different characters are elegantly arranged, almost as if without any conscious sense of shape or logical pattern. The Greek painter, Varda, whose collages of “luminous women” are celebrated in avant-garde circles, serves as a model for one of the characters in the book. There is even a sequence on Varda himself, a quite touching story concerning the collagist and his young daughter. Others that float through the narrative include a Japanese actress, a chef, a French Consul and his wife, and a Count. In such a feminine writer, whom Nin clearly was, Collages is tinged with a boyish mischievousness, a youthful male robustness that surprised me. Yet her sense of woman is still ever present, while the dreamlike, introspective style and psychological acuteness is persistently her own. I've completely changed my perception of Nin now, having only previously read the pornographic Delta of Venus and Little Birds. Collages is a whole other world.

[Samadrita · Rating 5 out of 5]

Anaïs Nin is my beloved witch, capable of making the nebulous frontiers between imagination and reality dissolve away into oblivion with one well-maneuvered flourish of her metaphorical pen, her personalized magic wand. Or I see her in my mind's eye, as a lovely but shabbily dressed seamstress, patiently weaving a patchwork quilt of exquisite beauty out of the gossamer strands of time.

Does art imitate life or does the opposite hold true?
Where does life begin? Where does it end? What lies in between? What does it all mean?
Anaïs Nin attempts to answer these hazy, unanswerable questions by giving us a snapshot of the perpetual movement of time and the phantasmagorical spectacle of humanity caught in its web, establishing without a doubt that there's no end, no beginning and no middle. Life is ad infinitum.

Dreams and reality collide in her writing, exploding in a dazzling array of fireworks illuminating the obscure part of our consciousness, giving us brief flashes of the realm in which the ultimate truth lies cocooned in the protective covering of the mundane, slumbering peacefully - the truth about life and beauty, love and lust, happiness and grief, the extraordinary and the common.

Collages is exactly what its title implies and much more than what our feeble imaginations can conceive upon the utterance of this word. It is not about a nation or a set of natives, a single protagonist or many, one life event or a set of discrete occurrences. Anaïs Nin renders perfect delineation unnecessary, makes clearly visible lines of divide vanish without a trace. Instead, vignettes, eerie and abstract, tangible and solid, merge and fall into each other, clumsily yet seamlessly, to create a surreal painting, a collage of the human consciousness holding the random admirer in thrall, glaringly all-encompassing in its wild, colorful abandon even though the viewer strives to make sense of it. But isn't life just like this baffling, bizarre work of art that Anaïs Nin begets? Comprehension stays forever out of reach. Even when we feel it floats mid-air at arm's length, attempts at trying to grasp it remain thwarted.

As Renate pours her beautiful, meaningless dreams into her empty canvasses, falls in and out of love with Bruce, drifting through space and time, touching the lives of many we get an impression of life's fluid grace and its capacity of encasing the infinite. The diseased, old man who shuns the company of his loved ones, preferring to live in a cave by the sea with a few seals as companions, the heart-broken French consul's wife who grieves for her broken marriage and vindictively contemplates finding a Turkish lover, the clairvoyant film critic who describes for Renate the scenarios written by struggling writers which never saw the light of the day, Nobuko who fights to free herself from the suffocating, rigid civility of the Japanese way of life - these are but a handful among the many myriad shades and facets of humanity shuttling in and out of Renate's life causing vague but perceptible upheavals. The quietly floating gondolas of Venice, the ochre-hued sand dunes of an African desert, the peaks of Peru and palaces of Marrakesh, upscale avenues of New York and streets of Arcadia, California all make fleeting appearances in this stunning collection of interlinked snippets, dismantling in the process all man-imposed barriers between nations and cultures and presenting to the reader an eerily arresting picture of life in all its glory and imperfection.

I don't care about Anaïs Nin being mostly recognized as a writer of literary erotica since I beg to differ on the subject of this categorization. I don't care about the fact that she shared an incestuous relationship with her father. But what I definitely care about is discovering and appreciating more of her splendidly assembled collages.

[Rowena · Rating 5 out of 5]

The more I read Anais Nin's works, the more I appreciate her as a writer. This book introduces us to many very interesting characters a young girl meets on her travels. I love how Nin can turn a simple event into beautiful poetry, and also how differently she looks at different aspects of life.This is one of the kinds of books you will just want to read again and again to appreciate the beautiful prose.

[M. Sarki · Rating 4 out of 5]

Marguerite Young said she loved this book the most of any written by Anaïs Nin. It was the literary form Nin had said she wanted to achieve in her writing most of all, but not at all what she is famous for. The text rambles much as the work of Young does, and the characters are just as eccentric and fantastic as well. Nin’s dreamscape challenges our own view of reality, and delightfully creates an alternative world many of us might enjoy and prefer than the one we think, or imagine, we live in. Though the work is erotic in the sense of its total aliveness, to my regret there is actually no graphic sex in it at all. But there is a vivid description of an LSD trip that Nin could not have made-up unless having had some prior use and experience in its mind-altering qualities. Even though the gifted Marguerite Young carefully introduced me to this book in one of her fair reviews, it still had many surprises. It is certainly a book I will revisit, if time permits.

[إيما · Rating 5 out of 5]

هالعمل ما من النوع يلي بمتلك الشجاعة لأشرحه أو أحكي عن شو هو بالزبط.. هالعمل من النوع يلي بحبهم وقراب رح خليهم يقرأوه ويتعرفوا عليه شخصيا غير هيك ما أعتقد رح أقدر وصللهم أفكاري تجاهه، لكن رح أحكي كلام كتفريغ بمناسبة انهائي لهالعمل وتوثيق.

بدأ العمل ك كولّاج ب"قطع" حول طفولة رونات وذكرياتها مع عمها، ومع بروس ورحلة اكتشافها لإله ولأسراره والبحث بعلاقاتهم بشذوذه ونزعاته السادية، ووالدها وعلاقتهم الشاذة، ويلي ممكن إن أناييس بتفرغ هون بعض ذكرياتها حسب معرفتي المحدودة بسيرتها..

تعرفت على كثير شخصيات خلال قطع "هالكولّاج" يلي التقتهم رونات خلال لوحاتها أو خلال تجوالها، وعلى حيواتهم ومشاعرهم ودواخلهم يلي أناييس عرضتها ووصفتها بكل جمال ولذة. الرسام، الطباخ، صاحب المغسلة، الممثل، الفنان، والكاتب، الكبير والصغير، الذكر والأنثى، العاقل والمجنون، ويلي بيتطلع للمستقبل ويلي بيتشبث وبيتعلق بالماضي..

**(علاقة الشخصيات بالحيوانات كثير لذيذة!)

جمل أناييس لذيذة جدا، كانت بارعة جدا بالوصف، أو بقدر أحكي هاد أكثر شي أدهشتني فيو وخلاني بسببه أتعلق فيها وأتعلق بأي حد بيحبه وبيقدر عليه، وكانت بتاخدني لعالم آخر تماما مع كل جملة، ومع كل صفحة كانت بترهقني من كثير التنقلات والجهد العقلي يلي بذلته وأنا بتنقل بخيالي مع أوصافها.

حبيت كثير المقطع يلي كانت فيو بتوصف هدوء عمها وملامحه وقت بده يعبر عن شي وما يعرف ولغة جسده.
ووصفها لحالته وقت بده يبادر بالكلام واندهشت إنو لأول مرة حد بيقدر يفهم ويصف الحالة يلي بتصيبني ويلي هي شبه حاله عمها بطريقة احترافية. #لأول مرة بتخيل حالي بهالمواقف وبقدر أتصورها، وبقدر قول إني حنتقل للمرحلة الثانية وأخيرا لأشفي حالي من هالتصرف وهالشي بفضل القمرة أناييس بالوقت يلي صرلي فترة كبيرة جدا عم حاول أستوعب هالشي. ♡♡♡#

سبب قراءتي للرواية بالمرتبة الأولى كان الاقتباس يلي عالغلاف، ويلي ابتدأت فيو الرواية أولى صفحاتها، مدهش مدهش ولذيذ جدا! وكذلك كانوا بقية الصفحات
وولا صفحة كانت عم تفتقد عامل الدهشة جواها!

شو حبيت (حسب ملاحظتي) اهتمامها لأناييس بالأوصاف والاستعارات أكثر من الحوارات. وهاد الشي يلي بيخليني أغرم بهيك عمل بسرعة من أول كم صفحة! بحب الأعمال يلي بتتملك روحي وجسدي كمان وبتئسرهم وبترعشهم بأوصافها ♡


أغرمت بالمرات يلي كانت بتوصف جمادات (شبه الشجر وأزهارها) بأوصاف جنسية بتعطيها حياة أكثر مما هي بالواقع وبتخليك تمتلئ بصور للشي يلي كانت بتوصفه وبتعطيه ألوان متفجرة بطريقى أحلى وألذ من أي شي مرئي شفته بحياتي!

أناييس أرهقتني بتتبعها لفن الكولاج بكتابتها للرواية، حيث وإنت ما مستعد بتنقلك لمشهد ثاني وبلحظة لمشهد ثالث وبرشاقة كبيرة لرابع وما بتعطيك فرصة لتتنفس.

حبيت جدا المقطع يلي طلعت رونات وبروس فيو ليعملوا لفة عالقارب وسط البحر والنهر والتقلبات النفسية وتعاملهم مع الإبحار، يلي عند القراءة الثانية ووقت ركزت شوي لاحظت الشبه يلي بين هالرمزية وبين المراحل يلي ممكن تمر فيها العلاقات، من انطلاق، ابحار، عدم توازن، غرق، انقاذ، يرجع الإبحار متوازن، ويرجع من ثاني يتعرقل، يجربوا الإبحار على النهر بدل من البحر، البطء والملل وعدم توفر الرياح لتحرك القارب، ابحار بلا دفة، إلخ..
وأشبه بهالموقف، موقف حريق البيت يلي كان برضو شي استغارة لوضع علاقتهم ومحاولتها لانقاذ البيت بالوقت يلي بروس كان عم يأنقذ لوحته يلي فيها بورتريه لإله ويركض بعيد عن البيت لحاله، إلى آخره من الأوصاف والتشبيهات المدهشة..


##هالعمل مليان استعارات، قصص عالم، أفكار ومواضيع كثيفة، لدرجة تعبانة ومرهقة إني أذكرهم، لأني عرفانة إنو هالشي صعب جدا علي وحنتهي بكتابة جريدة بحالها عنهم وحتى بعد هيك ما حيكون شي كافي لإله!##

[Justine Kaufmann · Rating 4 out of 5]

Anaïs Nin’s Collages is a series of vignettes in that dreamlike sense, that realm between fantasy and reality that the mind weaves while you sleep. Somehow everything is connected, even if you can’t put your finger on it once you have fully shaken off sleep’s hold. Somehow everything makes sense in those dreams, even the most uncanny and fantastic. In Collages, the statues of Vienna come to life at night and cry in the rain, a woman transforms into a raven, a former lifeguard returns to the sea and befriends the seagulls and seals, a writer meets her creations.

Collages can also be looked at in another way, a book about artists and art. Artists roam the pages of the book like spectres, their creations take on lives of their own. It is a collage of different people, places, and mediums. In the introduction, Anita Jarczok says: “Like the impressionists, Nin wanted to convey a transient perception of a person or a scene rather than an accurate and realistic representation.” This idea is reminiscent of what Lispector was trying to accomplish throughout much of her works around the same time—“to find the nucleus made of a single instant”. Oh how I wish I had been a reader during these years.

“A painting should take you to a place you have never seen before. You don’t always want to look at the same tree, the same sea, the same face every day, do you?”

“Her painting had been born from within just as her son had been, organic, part of her flesh.”

“Nothing endures unless it has first been transposed into a myth, and the great advantage of myths is that they are ladies with portable roots.”

“I am not absolutely certain of the meaning of that end to my book, but I am sure of one thing, that human beings can reach such desperate solitude that they may cross a boundary beyond which words cannot serve, and at such moments there is nothing left for them but to *bark*.”

[Donna · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book is really hitting me in all the right places. I've had to bookmark a few sections and read them over again because of how beautiful, sensual and richly detailed Nin's descriptions are.

I hate to be the one to spoil the party, but I just read this and it was simply too wonderful to keep to myself. This is just one part out of the many stories in this book that have tickled and swooned my senses. And no, it's not because I'm a dirty hippie hung up on the power and sanctity of psychedelics. I just thought it was pretty cool, okay?

So here, take this and let it sizzle for a little while.....peeps.

"Before I took the chemical called L.S.D., it was as if light, color, smell and touch could not reach me. It was as if I were outside looking through glass. But that day (I think it was the second time) I was finally inside. I looked at the rug on the floor and it was no longer a plain rug but a moving and swaying mass like hair floating on water or like wind over a field of wheat. The door knob ceased to be a plain door knob. It melted and undulated and the door opened and all the walls and windows vanished. There was a tremor of life in everything. The once static objects in the room all flowed into a fluid and mobile and breathing world. The dazzle of the sun was multiplied, every speck of gold and diamond in it magnified. Trees, skies, clouds, lawns began to breathe, heave and waver like a landscape at the bottom of the sea. My body was both swimming and flying. I felt gay and at ease and playful. There was perfect communicability between my body and everything surrounding me. The singing of the mocking-birds was multiplied, became a whole forest of singing birds. My senses were multiplied as if I had a hundred eyes, a hundred ears, a hundred fingertips. On the walls appeared endless murals of designs I made which produced their own music to match. When I drew a long orange line it emitted its own orange tone. The music vibrated through my body as if I were one of the instruments and I felt myself becoming a full percussion orchestra, becoming green, blue, orange, gold. The waves of sound ran through my hair like a caress. The music ran down my back and came out my fingertips. I was a cascade of red blue rainfall, a rainbow. I was small, light, mobile. I could use any method of levitation I wished. I could dissolve, melt, float, soar. Wavelets of light touched the rim of my clothes, phosphorescent radiations. I could see a new world with my middle eye, a world I had missed before. I caught images behind images, the walls behind the sky, the sky behind Infinite. The walls became fountains, the fountains became arches, the arches domes, the domes sky, the sky a flowering carpet, and all dissolved into pure space. I looked at a slender line curving over space which disappeared into infinity. I saw a million zeroes on this line, curving, shrinking in the distance and I laughed and said ‘Excuse me, I am not a mathematician.’ How can I measure the infinite? But I understand it. The zeroes vanished. I was standing on the rim of a planet, alone. I could hear the fast rushing sounds of planets rotating in space. Then I was among them, and I was aware that a certain skill was necessary to handle this new means of transporation. The image of myself standing in space and trying to get my ‘sea legs’ or my ‘space legs’ amused me. I wondered who had been there before me and whether I would return to earth."

[Amanda Chen · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Finding one's self in a book is a second birth"

[juch]

Cool and strange, she writes like a genius child, people are never en route to places, they arrive fully formed as these dynamic essences described in the most colorful and synesthetic ways. I wonder what it would be like to see the world in such grand ways, I am even a little scared or threatened by her romance/vitality, I felt relieved when darkness beyond individuals/relationships came in - the one story of someone’s revolutionary dad, the scale of that was the same as the story of like, a chef, which was both kinda charming and unsettling. Ultimately charming! Yusuf said this book made him want to talk to strangers

[ruby.mazin]

إن الامر يشبه كونك تنظر إلى لوحة "كولاج" قطع منفصلة، ولكنها في النهاية فن !

[Daphne · Rating 4 out of 5]

I did not expect to but I adored this book. One of my mom’s recs and it did not disappoint. So vivid and imaginative and wonderful.

[Ellen · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm a big fan of Anais Nin, for reasons I can't quite define. I love her diaries, self-absorbed as they may be. As a young woman in my 20s they gave me a place to go, a community almost and guided my own journal writing. And I loved the world and the people I found there, reflected through Nin's vision and personality.
But I also loved her fiction, its oddness & quirky quality appealed to me-and still does. And perhaps the fact that her original language was French and not English adds to the attraction of the somewhat formal language in often highly informal contexts.

[Mighty Aphrodite · Rating 4 out of 5]

È un’esperienza completamente diversa quella di leggere Anaïs Nin dopo averla riscoperta nei suoi diari come donna, scrittrice, amante, quando, ormai, ci sembra di conoscerla da sempre, di trovarla ovunque e da nessuna parte.

Si apprezza di più il suo mondo onirico, poetico, nutrito dell’inconscio, esso stesso inconscio, se si conosce la donna dietro i racconti, nascosta ironicamente dietro le immagini vivide, immersa interamente nella disperazione più cupa, nella solitudine degli esseri umani, presi a tal punto dai loro bisogni e dai loro desideri da non riuscire più a riconoscersi, a parlarsi, a comprendersi.

“Gli esseri umani possono raggiungere una tale disperata solitudine che arrivano ad attraversare una soglia al di là della quale le parole non servono più, e in momenti tali non rimane altro per loro che abbaiare.”

La realtà diventa così un insieme di minuziosi, piccoli dettagli, ognuno di un colore e una forma differenti e unici, capaci di creare un mosaico rutilante, imperfetto e drammaticamente reale, un collage dai contorni incerti e frastagliati come la vita stessa, che si distrugge e si rigenera costantemente, coinvolgendoci nei suoi spietati rituali e invitandoci a rispettare le mute regole del suo gioco fino a renderle nostre e, infine, sovvertirle.

Continua a leggere qui: https://parlaredilibri.wordpress.com/...

[William John Wither · Rating 3 out of 5]

A book about phantoms of the past. Everyone is looking backwards in the hopes of reawakening a time forgotten. The youth don't know what they're doing. They are in clothes that do not fit. Ultimately, this collection of character vignettes is enjoyable, albeit a little too shallow and contrived at points.

[Jenna · Rating 4 out of 5]

Beautifully written

[Mr Shahabi · Rating 4 out of 5]

"سقى البستاني احلام الآخرين، وليس خطأه انهم كبروا وعليه تشذيبهم "

[annaaa · Rating 4 out of 5]

this was cool i luv when female authors are strange and unconventional and there was like a cyclical moment at the end... need to go back to the beginning and compare some things to fully appreciate

[Elba · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was lovely, I definitely like her novels more than her essays or short stories

[Mina Widding · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ja, man kan nog kalla det collage, och trots att det inte riktigt var noveller så känns det så, eftersom de olika "bilderna" hänger samman löst genom Renate, huvudkaraktären. Men man får inget direkt sammanhang mellan dem, de är i princip porträtt på olika udda människor och händelser de utfört, excentricitet och konst, och relationer. Jag kan sakna något just sammanhängande och får inget riktigt grepp om Renate själv, men accepterar också den lösa formen, strukturen av bilder som tillsammans bildar collage. Cirkelkomposition.

[Gresi e i suoi Sogni d'inchiostro · Rating 5 out of 5]

Vedo me stessa riaffiorare da un posto sconosciuto, in compagnia di due amanti che, ignari di quella che si è rivelata una catastrofe, risente dei postumi della solitudine, dell’abbandono, e rammento di come tutto era iniziato per caso con la semplice parvenza di una vacanza. In questi ultimi giorni d’agosto, nel mentre mi godevo una settimana di puro e semplice relax, lontana dal lavoro e dalla monotonia del giorno, mi sono approcciata alla storia di un’autrice che amo molto. Fonte di inestimabile piacere dai cui testi si attinge la bellezza del sesso, l’unione di due anime impegnate in un coito come cogliendo il fiato di tutta una vita, coincidenza che si è fissato nella sabbia del tempo nel momento in cui ho desiderato leggere qualcosa di semplice e non troppo impegnativo.
Ancor adesso serbo un ricordo particolare, ponendo nero su bianco le mie impressioni riguardo l’ultima - l’ultima per me - fatica di Anais Nin. Ma è possibile che in sostanza sia una questione relativa alle sfavillanti emozioni che la sua lettura ha sortito così bene. Voglio dire, nella mia carriera di lettrice ho letto un'infinità di storie di questo tipo. Storie forti, passionali, silenziose ma grandi, come lo spazio caldo e lontano nel quale si potrebbero perdere le nostre tracce. Per sfuggire alla monotonia del giorno, per allietare il mio spirito - penso che, in questi ultimi giorni d'agosto, abbia avuto bisogno di questo - ho scelto di leggere Collages come se animata da qualche forza sconosciuta. Di solito so sempre dove indirizzare le mie preferenze letterarie, ma, talvolta, mi piace pensarla così.
Fu inoltre per combinazione che volli ascoltare questa splendida storia, che fu dipinta dai colori più sgargianti dell’anima, associandola alla realtà fortuita, quella alla quale i personaggi si aggrappano con diffidenza, emergendo da un grigiore dell’anima come una gigantesca crisalide. La vera e propria essenza dell’arte però è quella di saper cogliere la sua unicità, questo senso di unione fra figure che si dissolvono l’uno mediante l’altro, così evanescenti, quasi trasparenti e pronti ad essere rinchiusi in uno stato di staticità che in questo modo trasforma il mondo come essere che respira, fluisce, mediante gli occhi della coscienza che rivela ciò che ad occhio nudo era stato celato, completamente oscurato.
Era un pomeriggio frenetico e afoso, quando mi sorpresi di correre verso qualcosa che desideravo toccare, già da un bel po'. Non mi importava quello che avrei trovato al termine della corsa: volevo che fosse qualcosa di spontaneo, che corresse verso di me. Era questa la risposta che avevo bisogno, cioè la mia anima aveva bisogno che la mia coscienza si beasse di qualcosa di semplice e spontaneo. E, allo stesso tempo, avevo bisogno di sapere che potevo esserne travolta. La sua figura si era stanziata ai bordi della mia anima, con prepotenza e impetuosità. La sua cadenza sinuosa, romantica, vivida e bellissima fu una carezza sulla pelle. Una ventata d'aria fresca. Una benedizione fra letture impegnative e svariate. Istantaneamente, toccandola e facendomi avvolgere dalla sua essenza. E, privo di trama, surreale, lineare e cronologico dotato di una struttura circolare, articolata da immagini fulminee, istantanee o, in questo caso, colleges, che risvegliano, insegnano a farci rimanere in uno stato di grazia d’amore, da cui si tenta di estrarne il pensiero, quello astratto di figure incapace di amare e che tramutano certe forme di vita in processi afrodisiaci. Come attimi che potrebbero durare per sempre. Sparire, così come sono apparsi. Collocati in qualche stanza remota della coscienza, perché l’impeto con cui mi hanno travolta, accolta, è stato così inaspettato, coinvolgente, strappandomi dalla monotonia, dalla piattezza di certe giornate.
Mi ha resa felice, anche solo per qualche giorno, per avermi nascosto e ospitato in questa landa del cuore, in compagnia di alcune figure, in momenti in cui decisero di lasciarsi andare, mettere a tacere la voce interiore non per perdonare gli errori che hanno commesso insieme ma per accettarsi; così soli, indifesi, invisibili agli occhi del mondo se non per se stessi. Desiderosi di trovare un posto in cui sentirsi a loro agio, al sicuro dai fantasmi del loro passato. Renate, infatti, è un’artista che dipinge mediante un connubio di sentimenti, simboli e cui si adorna e adorna la sua anima mediante sogni, perchè l’arte avrebbe espresso ogni incauto sussulto, avrebbe interpretato ogni messaggio, messo in evidenza ogni parte del corpo o dell’anima entrando a contatto con la realtà e rivelando la natura di ogni cosa. L’essere umano, così primitivo e selvaggio, che in balia delle emozioni, degli impulsi perde il senso. la ragione, ma non quella brama ardente di libertà alla mercé di un tarlo che li divora lentamente da dentro, un baule zeppo di sogni e desideri riposto dimenticato in soffitta. Collages non è solo sbocco sull’anima, quella della scrittrice che alla fine si rivela pittrice e artefice di ogni cosa, quanto abisso scuro e angoscioso della lontananza. Perché questa libertà, questa forma di rinascita interiore a cui si aspira coincise con quella brama della Nin di aver permesso alla sua coscienza di credere in qualcosa, quando non aveva la certezza di poter sperare. Forse solo in questo modo avrebbe trovato la pace. La materia finita in uno spazio infinito, che rincorse la beatitudine eterna, donando calore con generosità e perfezione.
Una storia che, a dispetto di altri suoi romanzi, non brilla di emozioni, poichè qui esacerbate dalla possibilità di una rinascita o redenzione, in cui persino il sesso è un refuso che bisogna ignorare. Un testo breve ma di forte impatto, che tuttavia si è spostato elegantemente nei miei pensieri, con una storia priva di trama ma evocativa, quasi lirica, scavando nell’anima di chi legge.
Spettatrice di una vicenda che ha qualcosa di vero. Tangibile, che è un frammento di vita dell’autrice, come una vertigine che ha il più dolce dei sapori. La consapevolezza che la felicità, seppur effimera e imprecisata, è un vortice travolgente cui è impossibile sfuggire.

[Sofia aaa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Im sure there's no book like this one! Im really happy i found it at the library and in english (I'm from Portugal)! This hauting book is made of a series of stories that don't exactly should go well, but they work together like a dream or an hallucination. It's wonderful how Anaïs show us the world of the painter, we travel with her in her wonderful adventures. The ending was terrific, i wasn't going to rate with 5 stars but as soon as i reach the end, i couldn't do otherwise. This book is amazing and i was sad when it all came to an end.

'There were no clocks in the house, no calendars. It facilitated her return to the past, a long journey. It washed away the years from her body.'

'Bruce brought Renate an umbrella for her trip to Paris. It was made of cellophane, and planted with bunches of plastic violets. To walk in the rain and yet be able to see the sky, the building, the pople. And her face behind it when she opened it was like the face of a mermaid in an aquarium. The violets seemed planted in her dark hair.'

[Matt Amott]

i really liked this book. it was buried in a box of books i had so i'm not too sure when i got it. i've always liked anais nin. almost like a beat before the beats. i'm a fan of her and henry miller. so open in their lives and writing about life and sex and the wonders of the world. it focuses on a young girl who travels the world with various people who open her eyes to many cultures. but then she stays at a malibu motel and she describes the many people that work there and that come and go from the place. each chapter follows that person and their past for a bit. i gather the book title comes from the fact that renate, the main girl, is a painter and that it tells many stories of different people's lives all through the meeting of renate. renate seems more mature then her teenage years and nin writes with a passion and sensuality that translates remate's love of life.

[Tienlyn · Rating 5 out of 5]

tingley's machine that destroys himself is the story that i've read the most - i used to keep a dog-eared copy in my bag with me at all times until the front and back covers tore clean off. the book itself is a collage of individual consciousness' - the juxtaposition of her characters in various states of the psyche as well as physically and geographically, creates a new plane in which a unique dialog is formed between things that might have never before crossed paths.

[Scott Sheaffer · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ninish in all aspects. While the collection of stories don't contain the erotica found in some of Nin's other works the erotic styling is all there. I love it when a series of short stories, when considered as a whole, are a story unto themselves. Don’t be shy, have a sip of colleges and allow yourself to imagine what life would be as Anaïs Nin.

[Sian Lile-Pastore · Rating 5 out of 5]

I thought this was totally beautiful and fairy tale like and dreamy and wonderful. I liked it more when I read large parts of it all at once, it doesn't work as well if you just read a page or so at a time....
you should probably take a day off work and stay in bed and read it all at once.

[Bill Glover · Rating 4 out of 5]

Fun to read. I was thinking about what it was about the words she chooses. Ultimately its what she leaves out. This book is non-linear, which is good for Americans to be exposed to. It also contains zero bullshit. I would re-read this; maybe when its warmer out.

[lil · Rating 4 out of 5]

Rather than a novel collages Is like a book of encounters with all sorts of literary and interesting people. Told by Renate a beautiful painter - how much of an unreliable narrator is she?
I really like Anais’s use of orange as an adjective, it’s a mood, a song, a way.

[Renee · Rating 5 out of 5]

It was candy.

[jennifer garcia · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am in love with the way Nin uses words. Beautiful, captivating collection of stories, each interwoven with the next, yet also complete in itself. Every sentence is poetry.

[Richard · Rating 4 out of 5]

Something about this one makes it probably my favorite of Nin's novels (of those I've read). I've read this at least three times, I think...