There is very little objectivity with this writer. At least 10 stars! Her erotic pen is one of the most beautiful of all time! The era in which she lived was also very productive and stimulating. She was friends with painters, playwrights, writers, dancers, psychoanalysts. Among them were Artaud and Miller, two beautiful monsters!

Her works are filled with passion and sensuality, exploring the depths of human desires and emotions. The vivid descriptions and unique perspectives she offers make her writing truly captivating.

Despite the controversies that may surround her, there is no denying the talent and artistry that she brings to the literary world. Her influence can still be felt today, inspiring new generations of writers to push the boundaries and explore the uncharted territories of the human psyche.

Overall, this writer is a force to be reckoned with, and her works are a must-read for anyone interested in exploring the darker, more passionate side of life.

She may be one of the greatest to ever do it.

In September 1939,

“Paris at night. I stepped out of a cafe, a restaurant, into darkness. I recognized no one. The person I was going to say good-bye to vanished into darkness. What a profound isolation. But then, as I lost my intimate contacts, I entered into contact with the world. A world of gentleness was gone. A world of collective suffering was beginning. I had the illusion that when one loves, just as when we create human children, we create a permanent image of love like an iron statue by a sculptor. However, I was horrified to discover that the image the other person carried within him bore no resemblance to one's own, or that it could be annihilated by another love, or by a misunderstanding, or a distortion, or a failure of memory. This gave me a foretaste of death. We were not enshrined in the other's heart, and the one we loved was often immured, alone, separate from us. The war destroyed our illusion of a strong, unshatterable intimate world of personal loves.” (348)

This passage vividly describes the author's experience and emotions in the context of the war. The darkness and isolation in Paris at night symbolize the chaos and uncertainty of the times. The loss of intimate contacts and the realization that love is not as permanent as one might think add to the sense of despair. The war not only brings physical destruction but also shatters the illusions and dreams people have about love and relationships. It forces them to face the harsh reality and come to terms with the fact that nothing is certain in this world.

Staying deeply rooted to intuition, sensations, and feelings rather than the intellect, premeditation, and ideas is a way of life that some people choose to embrace. Intuition is that inner voice that guides us, often without us even realizing it. Sensations allow us to experience the world around us in a more immediate and visceral way. And feelings give us a sense of what is important to us and what we truly desire.

By contrast, the intellect, premeditation, and ideas can sometimes lead us astray. We may overthink things, second-guess ourselves, or get caught up in theoretical concepts that have little to do with our actual experience. While these aspects of our minds are certainly important, they should not overshadow our intuition, sensations, and feelings.

When we stay deeply rooted in these more intuitive and emotional aspects of ourselves, we are better able to make decisions that are in line with our true selves. We are more open to new experiences and more likely to take risks that lead to personal growth and fulfillment. So the next time you find yourself纠结 between following your head or your heart, consider staying deeply rooted to your intuition, sensations, and feelings.

What makes people despair is that they attempt to discover a universal meaning for the entirety of life, only to ultimately conclude that it is absurd, illogical, and devoid of meaning. There isn't a single grand cosmic meaning applicable to all. Instead, there is only the meaning that each of us assigns to our own life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, similar to an individual novel, a book unique to each person. Seeking total unity is incorrect. In my view, giving as much meaning as possible to one's life is the right thing to do. For that constitutes a contribution to the whole.

Artaud once told me: 'The difference between you and other women is that you inhale carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen.'

I am writing more and more to the sound of music, writing more like music. Tonight, sitting in my studio, playing record after record, writing, music serves as the most powerful stimulant, far more potent than wine. In the interior monologue, there is no punctuation. James Joyce was correct. It flows like a river.

When I was analyzing, I clearly observed that the fear of death is proportional to not truly living. The less a person engages with life, the greater the fear. By being alive, I mean living through all the cells, all the parts of oneself. The cells that are denied become atrophied, like a dead arm, and infect the rest of the body. People who live deeply have no fear of death.

I adhere to the world created by the artists because the other one is filled with horror, and I can see no remedy for it.

If one is good, nothing ever truly changes.

Moricand says: 'You are in a state of grace. The fairytale is possible for you. You make it happen.'

I am experiencing through others what I cannot directly experience myself […] My deep friendships are like the selves I tried to transcend, the lives I skipped.

I had the whole set of books and read them all when I was 17 or 18 years old. At that time, I was completely enthralled by them. The stories, the characters, and the worlds they created seemed to transport me to another realm.

However, I often wonder if my perception would be different if I were to read them now. As I have grown older and gained more life experiences, my perspective has changed. I might be less enthralled and more irritated by certain aspects of the books.

Perhaps the writing style that once seemed so captivating would now appear juvenile or overly simplistic. Or maybe the themes and messages that I found so profound in my youth would no longer resonate with me. It's interesting to think about how our tastes and preferences evolve over time.

Nevertheless, I still cherish the memories of reading those books and the joy they brought me during my younger years. They will always hold a special place in my heart.

[02/20] ANAÏS NIN – Diario II [1934 - 1939] Edición de Gunter Stuhlmann

'I know that I did nothing valuable to remedy the great suffering of the world, apart from a few palliatives, the drug of poetry, and individual loves, which change nothing in the great currents of cruelty.'

One of the most fascinating diaries of the 20th century. This edition has been purged due to the scandalous content that its author came to include (a great deal of explicit sex or a consummated romance with her father), and which has caused the approach of readers to this wonder of literature to be seen with some prejudice. However, what is inside is very exciting, told with an open prose but of great intensity. Here, Anaïs Nin's lucid reflections sketch the scene of her time (the Spanish Civil War accompanies her throughout this volume, as well as the imminent outbreak of World War II). But it is structured based on her most intimate reflections, a large part in aphoristic form, ranging from artistic creation (with the semblances of Miller, Artaud, Breton, Durrell...), human relationships, feminism, politics or mere existence. It offers a unique perspective on a tumultuous era, seen through the eyes of a remarkable and complex woman.

I am giving this four stars. However, I have to admit that I found all her ruminations on the differences between women and men rather annoying. I'm not entirely sure if I overlooked this aspect in the first volume or if it was more prominent in this one. Nevertheless, despite this minor drawback, her writing is truly magical. The way she weaves words together creates a captivating and enchanting experience. Reading her diaries always has a profound impact on me, inspiring me to write more in my own diary. It's as if her words have the power to unlock the creativity within me. I find myself constantly drawn back to her writing, eager to explore more of her thoughts and experiences. Overall, while the discussions on gender differences may have been a bit of a distraction, the overall quality of her writing and the inspiration it provides far outweigh this small issue.

Mixed feelings.

I love the world that Anaïs has created. There, art and literature are what matter, it is her everything. The rest is secondary. The way she writes is sharp and poetic.

However, sometimes she is so blatantly self-satisfied and some parts are a bit outdated. Which makes it a bit off-putting to read sometimes.

But this book has made a great impression on me. It has opened my eyes to a new way of thinking about art and literature. The vivid descriptions and the unique perspectives she presents have made me see things in a different light. Although there are some flaws in the book, overall, it is a remarkable piece of work that I would highly recommend to anyone interested in art and literature.

I look forward to reading more of Anaïs' works in the future and seeing how her writing evolves.

There are a plethora of thoughts in this diary that I truly adored. Those precious gems indeed made this book highly worthwhile.

However, I discovered that I had a lack of interest in her life. Since this is a diary, there are numerous entries regarding her difficulties in mothering her friends who have various problems and vices.

It was a real struggle for me to complete this, yet I did take pleasure in her insights.

Her ability to perceive and express certain aspects of life and human nature was quite remarkable.

Although the focus on her friends' issues at times made it a bit tiresome, the moments of genuine wisdom and self-reflection within the diary made it all the more interesting.

Overall, despite the challenges I faced while reading, I can still appreciate the value that this diary holds.

The book falls apart in my hands.

It's as if no one has read it for 40 years. The pages have turned yellow-brown with age and stiffened with coldness.

It’s brittle and frozen, coming undone in my hands as if the sheer touch is too much for it to handle.

It is overwhelmed. Has it waited out death for 40 years to die in warmth? But I cannot allow this.

I will not aid in the murdering of something once so beautiful and filled with a thousand lives.

The pages fall off like the hair of a chemo patient. Death is staring right at it and humiliates it by making it shed its beautiful veil.

Luxurious with an organic flow that never ceased to grow until the day black forced itself upon it and stayed.

I am the doctor, not Death’s accomplice. I hold together the fallen pieces.

I find hope among the torn flesh-bound and discolored skin-pages.

If it has lived this long harboring a silent killer, it will fight what has now become visible, shown its ugliness.

For what you can see is easier to kill than what you cannot. This I find to be an improvement.

Now I can begin to help it heal and stop the quiet suffocation it has endured.

With the turn of each page, a breath is taken. Air is the beginning of Life. It will live. And I too, will grow.

"Writing more and more to the sound of music, writing more and more like music. Sitting in my studio tonight, playing record after record, writing, music, a stimulant of the highest order, far more potent than wine. In the interior monologue there is no punctuation. James Joyce was right. It flows like a river.” — The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. Two


I have a profound love for Anais Nin's first diary, and this second volume has also brought me great enjoyment. Indeed, she is extremely self-absorbed, and at times, reading about how great people claim she is can be a bit tiresome. However, one cannot help but admire her unapologetic attitude and the unique perspective from which she views life. Her writing is truly one-of-a-kind; it is beautiful, thoughtful, and poetic, transforming diary-writing into a genuine art form.


In this diary, Ms. Nin finds herself a little restless. She contemplates whether to stay in Louveciennes or venture to New York. Eventually, she makes the decision to go to New York, where she surprisingly becomes a psychoanalyst despite lacking any formal training in the field. The part where she is in New York seems almost surreal; I simply cannot picture Anais Nin at Madison Square Garden watching a hockey game!


The diary was penned prior to World War Two, and as such, it contains several political references. For instance, she writes, "A war is going on which people doubt will become a real war. It may be a mock war to satisfy those who clamoured for it. We are being deceived, and what is happening is a mystery. Scant news.”


The diary is filled with Nin's fascinating observations. Similar to Proust, she also delves into the topic of memory, stating, "Some portions of my life were lived as if under ether, and many others under a complete eclipse. Some of them cleared up later, that is, the fog lifted, the events became clear, nearer, more intense, and remained as unearthed for good. Why did some of them come to life, and others not? Why did some remain flavourless, and others recover a new flavour and meaning?”


Overall, I sense a greater sense of sadness surrounding Nin in this volume. She appears to have given so much of herself to those around her, and it is evident that the news of the war has taken a toll on her. I am eagerly looking forward to delving into Volume Three.

Beautiful and eloquent, Anais Nin was always in pursuit of the truth. She focused both internally and outwardly. However, she was limited by the time, her own preconceptions, as well as the passions and prejudices of those around her. Nevertheless, she let herself be inspired by all of this. Intelligent enough to question everything, Anais was an open observer. She shared her emotional and philosophical journey in a rich outpouring of poetic prose about being an artist and a human being. I often found myself completely lost in her words, trembling due to the sheer beauty of them. Anais was a caregiver, generously offering herself to others, while also being hungry for insight in return. Viewing everything through the prism of her own experiences, her journal is truly a treat for readers who have a love of language and a desire for fantastical journeys into the human mind, heart, and the ever-shifting inner landscape.