**Expanded Article**

Something or other has been developing the worst in me. I must have been a false ascetic before, for now spirituality is deserting me. I live solely with my body, led by numerous sensations I never felt before. I am filled with warmth, leapings, and languors. It's as if a new world has opened up within me, one that I am both excited and scared to explore.

Some women manage to can fruit and maintain beautiful bodies and awake minds. But as most of them can't, they ought to give up the canning. It seems that in the pursuit of one thing, we often sacrifice another. And sometimes, it's better to focus on what truly matters and let go of the rest.

I seek to understand character, to develop it. But when that is done, I am bored. It takes me such a short time to discover everything, and then I long to run away again, home, to my thoughts and occupations. It's as if I am constantly searching for something more, something that I can't quite put my finger on.

I can't live in artificiality. In the eyes of people like the countesses, I see thoughts other than those they speak about, dimmed by a long habit of reserve, sometimes effaced completely. There remains nothing but a watchful guard set upon the thoughts of others, which they cannot tolerate. It makes me realize how false and superficial much of our social interactions can be.

That is all that social life means, the careful setting of a web. We feel that we are living because we feel the web pulling and feel we are important merely because our absence tears the web. This web, to most people, is a justification of their lives, and it is responsible for their illusions. It's a sad state of affairs, really, when we base our sense of self-worth on something so fragile and artificial.

I am tired of writing just for myself. It is like talking to a wall, like smoking in the dark. I know I could make others cry and make them infinitely, desperately, divinely alive. I know I say what they wish to say and cannot say. And some, if my writing reached them, this writing I have done walking alone, would know that there are several of us walking alone, and that it is good to know it. I long to connect with others through my words, to touch their hearts and souls.

I am beginning to understand that everybody is a mixture, that I am the worst one myself, that there is nothing to do about it. But I know now that since I live more, I understand more. It's a process of growth and self-discovery, one that I am both embracing and resisting at the same time.

I feel the petty cruelties of people in the shops, the petty lies, the petty tyranny. I am no more philosophical about suffering than before, no more hardened, no more stoical. It makes me realize how cruel and unforgiving the world can be, and yet, I still have hope that things can get better.

Perhaps I do not live enough now with my head. I have lost it - and I feel happy without it! It's a strange feeling, this liberation from the constraints of my own mind. But it also makes me wonder what else I have been missing out on all this time.

I will always be too soft, and too impulsive, and too thoughtful, and too analytical. Like Proust, I don't look at people; “Je les radiographie” (I X-ray them). It's just the way I am, and I have learned to accept it. But it also means that I often see things that others don't, and sometimes, that can be a burden.

The real world goes to pieces and I am another woman, dissolved by passion, conquered by a love that belongs to no one, and to anyone, outside of myself, and yet possessing all of me. It's a love that consumes me, that makes me feel both alive and vulnerable at the same time.

Living itself takes too much energy, too much thought, too much of one's preciously gathered wisdom. There is nothing left but a bad taste in one's mouth and the strong desire to forget. It's as if life is constantly draining us, leaving us empty and疲惫.

I have lived with books, bathed in ink, worshipped the inward life blindly. I have renounced half the beauty in the world (when I slapped the faces of the men who desired me). I have been the most chaste woman, the most desperate dreamer, the most innocent child, the most self-effacing sister, the most obedient daughter, the most virtuous of housewives. I feared to hurt, to disturb, to take up too much room. I left defiance, rebellion to noisier, bigger people. I had enough with being loved. But today, I am a woman. I defy the hate, the criticism, the envy, the scandalized faces around me. I have my dream. I'll follow it alone, always, against the world.

I really don't work - I create. And that's all. It's a simple statement, but it sums up my entire philosophy of life. For me, creating is not just a job or a hobby - it's a way of life.

Feeling is stronger in me than thought. It's a fact that I have come to accept about myself. My emotions often guide my actions and decisions, sometimes to my detriment, but always with a passion and intensity that I cannot ignore.

I suppose that although I spend so much time explaining myself, others will interpret me in their own way. It's inevitable, really, given that everyone has their own biases and perspectives. But still, I continue to try to express myself as clearly as possible, hoping that at least some people will understand.

The purity of biographies is going to turn me away from novels. There's something about the truth, about the real lives of real people, that fascinates me more than the fictional worlds created by novelists.

No use giving the details of what a woman can do when she hates you. Women have a genius for petty cruelty. It's a sad truth, but one that I have witnessed firsthand. And yet, I also believe that women are capable of great love and kindness, if only given the chance.

The best inheritance parents can leave their children is having been great and wonderful themselves, rather than the usual collection of ‘sacrifices’ and ‘renunciations,’ to be eternally mentioned afterward as a reproach. It's a powerful statement, and one that I hope more parents will take to heart.

My secret does not poison me! I feel glorious and strong and right. I bow today before the facts of my strange self - a woman who was not contented with one life but embraced several - as others do within a longer space of time. But I have no sense of time. There are no barriers for me. I am going through several incarnations now, all in one. It's a liberating feeling, this sense of being able to break free from the constraints of time and identity.

I will never give myself entirely to anything. I will never escape from myself, neither by love, by maternity, by art. It's a statement of independence and self-reliance, one that I am proud to make.

What reality lacks, a lie will give - a beautiful lie. It's a thought-provoking statement, one that makes me wonder about the nature of truth and falsehood. Is there such a thing as a beautiful lie? And if so, when is it acceptable to tell one?

What happens when you don't live out physically and humanly an idea in your head, a dream, a desire? I work for working's sake and without proof of the value of what I do. It's a question that haunts me, one that I have been struggling with for a long time. What is the point of all this work if there is no end goal in sight?

I love knowing everything real, ugly, ferocious. I eat up life whole, don't pick the choice and dainty morsels. It's a bold and fearless attitude towards life, one that I hope to maintain always.

I saw the madness, the wise madness, in her. She saw the wise madness in me. We were discovered. It's a moment of connection and understanding, one that I will never forget.

There is no doubt I am an artist, which makes a fine woman out of me; not a stone, not a housekeeper, not a nurse - a free, pliable, busy being, who weighs on nobody - carrying a world, not demanding one. It's a beautiful and empowering description of myself, one that I am proud to live up to.

It is only in the dull moments that I lie and invent, when I feel the necessity of stimulating people by a fantastic statement or of stimulating my own life, which is in danger of dying in their presence. And so I lie, for the wonder of it. It's a confession of my own human nature, one that I am not ashamed to admit.

No man now who wants to play the idiotic man-and-woman game with me - you yield, I tyrannize; you tyrannize and I am subjugated; you run away, I hunt; you hunt and I run away - will ever get any affection from me. It's a statement of my independence and my refusal to be drawn into games and power struggles.

To have a poetical temperament is to have inside of you a kind of perpetual singing. Whether sad or gay the response is a song, a humming, a rhythm, a sweeping and rolling and rushing force. It's a beautiful and evocative description of what it means to be an artist, one that I can relate to on a deep level.

Today I decided to bear the dissatisfaction, too, the self-criticism and the self-condemnation - not through tolerance, but because I have ceased to care about myself. Not worth bothering about. Let it wriggle - and work. The wriggling is good for the work. I don't even try to give myself a harmonizing philosophy, or seek to satisfy my desires. Need friends? Need passion? Need brilliance? What of it? Go to work. In that, you are good, and in that alone. In that, you can redeem your sophistry, your fallacious impulses, your emotional inflammability, your little spiteful, sharp, jealous sensibilities. It's a powerful and inspiring statement of self-acceptance and determination, one that I will carry with me always.

I am an island on which nobody can land. Nobody will ever again be allowed to crunch the soft sand, to leave imprints of big confident feet, to write on the sand other women's names with their tip of a wand, to leave the mold of a body where the body has lain. It's a statement of my independence and my need for solitude, one that I am not afraid to make.

(A kiss can destroy a philosophy.) It's a simple yet profound statement, one that makes me wonder about the power of love and passion to change our beliefs and values.

The perpetual pain of craving is the source of the artist's work. It's a truth that I have come to accept about myself and about the creative process. Without that pain, without that longing, there would be no art.

I go off on solitary journeys to find my own divine integrity again. It's a necessary part of my life, this need to withdraw from the world and reconnect with myself on a deeper level.

If I had not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people's. It's a powerful statement of my creativity and my need to express myself through my art. Without it, I feel like I would be lost.

Pity will always save me from inhumanity. It's a beautiful and compassionate statement, one that reflects my belief in the power of empathy and kindness to make the world a better place.

I knew that by going so deeply into life I had gone of my own will into hell. It's a profound and honest admission, one that shows the courage it takes to face the darker side of ourselves and of the world around us.

What an awesome mind!

She was truly a person with an incredibly remarkable and outstanding intellect.

Moreover, she was a deeply sensitive and creative individual. Her sensitivity allowed her to perceive the world in a unique and profound way, while her creativity enabled her to bring forth new and innovative ideas.

However, it must also be said that she must have been an exhausting person to have known. Dealing with her intense emotions, high levels of creativity, and complex thought processes could have been a challenge for those around her.

Nevertheless, her awesomeness, sensitivity, and creativity made her a truly remarkable and unforgettable person.

If you have a penchant for delving deep into another individual's mind and witnessing the progression of their lives, then perusing Anaïs Nin's diaries is far more delightful and edifying than observing someone's drama play out on television.

Her remarkable talent for vividly depicting her emotions, her daily life activities, and her profound thoughts about various matters makes for a truly enjoyable read.

This particular volume showcases her journey of self-discovery and self-actualization, as she learns to be true to herself and not attempt to be all things to all people.

It also reveals her growing fixation on intellectual stimulation, which increasingly influences her choices as she endeavors to take charge of her own destiny.

Overall, Anaïs Nin's diaries offer a unique and captivating window into the inner workings of a remarkable woman's mind and life.

I went through a real Nin kick about fifteen years ago. It was a period when I was deeply immersed in her works. However, I got a bit miffed when I learned that the versions I was reading were so hacked up. They read nice on the surface, but major topics were omitted. When I discovered she was married, I almost threw the book across the room! (Actually, I was on a plane and sighed loudly instead.) It truly changed my perception of her. Also, her life was like a train wreck in her drama, which got quite annoying. She had affairs with her gay cousin, with her shrink, and with girls, and so on. The more I read about her ridiculous behavior, the more unacceptable I found her writing. Her fiction seemed like gibberish to me. Her book on D.H. Lawrence was good, but it was more of a good start than any great literary criticism.

Fortunately, most of the characters in her life have now passed away, so this version is more complete. I can't really figure out all her diaries and their publishing history. She wrote a ton of diaries, to the point where it seems to have detracted from her other creative output. She is known, I think, for all the sexy stuff in her later years, including an affair with her father, which may have been fabricated. (She was not overly attached to facts and reality.)

This diary covers the years 1927 to 1931. She is mostly in Paris and is in her mid-twenties. Once I hit forty, I became very forgiving of what people do in their younger years, so I am not so critical of her overall. And this slice of her life is pretty tame compared to some of the more scandalous periods.

Nin lives with her banker husband, who is supporting not only her but also her mother and younger brother. At one point, they lose a significant amount of money in the stock market crash and have to give up their fancy accommodations for something cheaper outside the city. These folks are "poor" in the sense of "down to just two or three servants" poor, not really poor in the true sense, so it's not a tragic situation.

As far as her love affairs go, she adores Hugh, her husband, but resents him for being such a working drudge. On the other hand, she loves the money he provides and struggles with this internal conflict. She has a stupid affair with a writer dude (John Erskine, I believe), pines over that at times, and then focuses on her gay cousin. She is also, at times, a shameless flirt and explores her issues in her diary, trying to make sense of it all. This is right before she meets Henry Miller, her next big love affair.

The other topic she struggles with is being an artist. She reminds me of Kerouac with the struggle to get published. At this time, she is writing many stories and articles. She spends many years of her life trying to reconcile her diary with her writing and eventually decides that the diary is her work. I wish she had been able to figure it all out more clearly.

I'm not sure if I will continue with the next chunk of her diaries. It's frustrating to witness someone frittering away their talents because it's more exciting to be desired. But this volume was great. I really enjoyed it and found it thought-provoking. I intermittently keep a paper diary myself, and reading this was a good prompt to continue with it.

One other thing that stood out to me was her handwriting. It was unbelievably neat and consistent. There were no cross-outs, just beautiful cursive, page after page. It was almost like a work of art in itself.

Anais Nin's diaries are a complex web of deceit and promiscuity. The first volumes of the "Early Diaries" held a certain allure due to the curiosity factor. What did her initial entries look like? How did her writing style evolve over time? Years later, she would reject her earlier childish puritanism. At least in those early days, she wasn't engaging in infidelity.

However, the first half of this volume is excruciatingly tedious as she struggles to convince herself that she isn't miserable in her marriage. Things take a turn when she has a brief affair with the 20-years-her-senior author John Erskine. I often wondered if she was always so nonchalant about her unfaithfulness. Now I know the answer is a resounding yes. It's not that the encounter had no impact on her. She agonizes over it for more than a year, wondering if he still thinks of her, why he doesn't write, and if he does, why his letters are so cold. But there is little evidence of remorse.

I should be used to Nin's self-absorption, but I was truly shocked when she complains that her banker husband is too preoccupied with the 1929 stock market crash to give her the attention she desires. Later, she reveals that her husband, against her advice, invests more of their money in the stock market after the crash, with disastrous consequences. Regardless of whose fault it is, they have to downscale their luxurious lifestyle and move to the outer suburb of Louveciennes. Here, something changes, and her writing takes off. I've always been skeptical of writers who claim that the place they write is crucial, but it's hard to dispute the results here.

Anais and her husband become fascinated with psychoanalysis, and the final pages are filled with revelations about her husband's repressed upbringing, which Nin claims led to their marriage not being consummated until many months after their wedding. This is a recurring theme among many of her lovers. Her encounter with Erskine was also not consummated. It's fair to say that, whether intentional or not, she had a weakness for men who had difficulties in that department.

The initial bowdlerized version of her diary begins where this one ends, and the unexpurgated version also starts in the same place. It might have been better if they had started halfway through this volume. But not knowing the Erskine backstory, which is briefly mentioned in the first volume of the unexpurgated diaries starring Henry Miller and his wife June, isn't a significant loss. It's easy enough to go back and read the early diaries if you become hooked.

Vol 4:

The early work of this author truly fascinates me. These are the early diaries of Nin, dating back to the time before she met Henry Miller. She was a young woman then, recently married to an investment banker in Paris named Hugh, and the daughter of a famous concert pianist.

Although her diaries are from 1927 to 1931, one would never be able to guess the time period from the content. The issues she writes about are timeless. Nin takes Spanish dancing lessons with a brooding teacher, gets painted by Russian countesses, and generally leads a visceral lifestyle.

Her insatiable quest for more and more stimulation often traps her, which doesn't seem to bode well for her later years. However, what truly stands out is her beautiful writing. I seriously think she writes better than many great American male authors such as Hemingway. Her words have a unique charm and depth that draw the reader in and keep them engaged from start to finish.

Anais Nin's journal is truly an excellent piece of work.

It provides a detailed account of her life before she meets Miller. The journal includes vivid and lusty details of her relationship with Hugh. It's truly wonderful to read about how madly in love she was with him.

She journals extensively about an incident that nearly tears her and Hugh apart. However, their love proves to be stronger than any obstacle. Her writing is so lovely and engaging.

The latter part of the journal is even more fascinating, mainly because of the incident she refers to earlier. It keeps the reader on the edge of their seat, eager to know more about how their relationship evolves and overcomes this challenge.

Overall, Anais Nin's journal is a must-read for anyone interested in love, relationships, and beautiful writing.

Oh, it is truly a magnificent and enchanting thing to be so deeply entranced by someone and witness them blooming into the fully formed person they are destined to become.

Although I firmly believe that we are constantly evolving beings until the very day we pass away, it is still utterly captivating to see Anaïs step into her own and gradually transform into the figure we know her as today.

I have this feeling that I say this after every volume of a journal that I have completed, but this one immediately becomes a favorite.

Not only do you get to observe her navigate the complex world of publication and the humble beginnings of her literary work, but you also gain an even deeper insight into her psyche and that of her husband, Hugh's.

I think some of the most remarkable aspects of this are Anaïs opening herself up to the realm of psychology and uncovering the roots of her consciousness and subconscious.

The revelation of her true authenticity with Hugh (and his with her), her unwavering need to be fully herself, and her explorations into the arms of others.

Ahhhh…It is all just so utterly bewitching!!

Having already read Henry and June, this volume provides me with an even more profound understanding of its implications.

Anaïs Nin is truly one of the most fascinating figures to have ever lived, and her thoughts and feelings about life are both astounding and reassuring.

To be all that she was at such an early stage in history, you begin to find it even more astonishing that she always remained true to herself, that ever-changing duality of being human.

“That is what the woman must learn above all else—that after all, we have made a cult of man’s love and should not have; that we do not realize the importance of work so as to be less vulnerable to transitions in love.”

"Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people's."


This volume serves as the direct connection between the Early Diaries and THE Diary, concluding just a few weeks prior to Nin's encounter with Henry Miller. This meeting would have a profound and far-reaching impact on both her writing and her life in the years that followed.


Particularly towards the conclusion of this volume, one can sense Nin "preparing" for a significant event to unfold in her life. She all but admits to herself, and ultimately to her husband as well, her longing for an affair and her sexual dissatisfaction within her marriage. Simultaneously, she and her husband Hugh achieve a new level of honesty in their relationship.


Nin also experiences a breakthrough in her writing career. Although all the short stories she composes during this period are rejected by various magazines, her book on D.H. Lawrence finally manages to reach publication.


The central themes explored in this volume include faithfulness and extramarital affairs, the distinction between love and lust, and Nin's insatiable appetite for intellectual stimulation.


Nin's world is utterly captivating - I am eagerly anticipating the opportunity to read the next volume.