The Diary of Anais Nin, Volume 1: 1931-1934
Anaïs Nin
Language: English
Pages: 314
ISBN: 2:00151675
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This celebrated volume begins when Nin is about to publish her first book and ends when she leaves Paris for New York. Edited and with a Preface by Gunther Stuhlmann
Somewhere Towards the End: A Memoir
Time Bandit: Two Brothers, the Bering Sea, and One of the World's Deadliest Jobs
A Spy on the Bus: Memoir of a Company Rat
I Heard My Country Calling: A Memior
Dressed for the street, I dressed for my Spanish dances. Miralles would already be rehearsing his own castanets. The piano, slightly out of tune, was beginning the dance of Granados. The floor was beginning to vibrate as other Spanish dancers tried out their heel work. Tap tap tap tap tap. Miralles was about forty, slender, erect, not handsome in face but graceful when dancing. His face was undefined, his features blurred. I was the favorite. He was like a gentle Svengali, and by his eyes, his.
Takes the attitude of the artist, who is not so much concerned with the pure ideological structure of his book as with the lyrical or dramatic expression of it. It is in this difference between individual expression that we find a new dimension, a new climate, a new vision. To reduce a fantasy is only a means of dredging the neurotic imagination, of diminishing the stage on which the neurotic must live out his drama with the maximum of intensity, for the sake of catharsis. Rank has given the.
To take to New York and to show to artists. The walls were white and high. There was a garden outside, which seemed to extend into the vast studio because of the answering plants. I see their figures against this white background. Although there must have been color, I see them in black and white, people stripped of ornamentation and unessentials, engravings, he of wood, and she of compassionate but serene flesh. And it is difficult to believe that Marcel Duchamp is the one who sent a urinal.
Because of my fear of cruelty. Seeing a small manifestation of it in Henry brought out an awareness of all his other cruelties (he beat his pregnant first wife). It was to avoid this conflict that I almost became a recluse. Regression. I fell back into early memories, early states of being, into childhood recollections, and all this prevents me from living in the present. I give too much importance to cruelty. All this sounds very reasonable. Certainly I feel cold and withdrawn, and I need to.
Undescribable fear and anxiety keeps me on the move. On certain evenings like this, I would like to feel whole. Only a half of me is sitting by the fire, only my hands are sewing. I am concerned with the sorrow of June, and yet I am aware that June does Henry more harm than good. A bar. June in a gay mood, making fun of Henry's abstract mood, of his passivity in life, of his writer's esprit d'escalier. "He is quite dead, you know, Anaïs, dead emotionally and dead sexually," How they love to.