I completely fell in love with Anais Nin and devoured her first three diaries with great enthusiasm. It was as if I had discovered a hidden treasure trove of emotions and thoughts.

However, everything changed a few weeks ago when I saw the movie Henry and June. After watching it, I found myself disillusioned and, to my surprise, I off-loaded her Diaries to the guy at the Goodwill Donation center this past weekend. Along with them, I also got rid of All the Sad, Young Literary Men, Then We Came To The End, and How to Lose Friends and Alienate People.

I'm left wondering how I could have fallen so hard for her and then felt so deceived. I truly don't know the answer. What does this say about me? That's a mystery too. I think what bothered me the most about the movie was that it portrayed her as a rich, bored housewife who suddenly became interested in exploring sex and psychology only after Henry and his Bohemian friends and lovers entered her life. This depiction made her seem selfish for cheating on her husband and overly focused on her own mind rather than in touch with her sexual feelings, as her writing seems to suggest. It painted her as an out-of-touch aristocrat type.

But I know that the movie is just one interpretation, and Nin's writing is something entirely different. I still idolize her ability to convey emotion so powerfully on the page. I have yet to read Delta of Venus and all her other letters, and I'm sure I will at some point. For now, I need to let the memory of how the movie painted her fade away and focus on the beauty and depth of her writing. XO

Volume Two of the diary, though a bit more fragmented than the first one, is still nearly as captivating.

Nin begins by comparing two magnificent cities, New York and Paris. She is faced with the difficult choice between her analytical profession and her writing. Meanwhile, as political storms are brewing in Europe, we witness her romanticism gradually fading away. The inner struggle within her against the evil and destructiveness of mankind becomes increasingly prominent as the specter of war looms large.

At certain moments, I felt that this diary was almost too disjointed, filled with random thoughts. However, that is precisely the core of its structure. Moreover, the introductions to various writers and literature in her world are truly worthy of exploration. They offer a fascinating glimpse into the rich intellectual and artistic landscape that Nin inhabited.

Overall, despite its flaws, Volume Two of the diary provides a unique and valuable perspective on Nin's life, her thoughts, and the historical context in which she lived.

For some reason, I really enjoy "hanging out" with Anais during the summer.

To keep in that state, I read Diary 2. Although it's not as good as the first one, I still appreciate her artistic writing style. She has the ability to view even the most mundane things as art, which is truly remarkable.

Her life is so colorful and full of adventures. It's hard to imagine doing some of the impulsive things she does, like leaving her home to purchase a riverboat.

In addition, she continues to play the "savior" role for the people around her, often sacrificing her own physical comfort. These kinds of experiences make her diaries a fun and interesting read.

Her books may not be life-altering, but they do manage to grab my attention and Anais haunts me. Maybe it's her willingness to live life to the fullest, her refusal to conform, or her ability to see beauty in everything. I'm not really sure.

I guess I will just have to wait until next summer to find out more.

Okay. I have recently developed a newfound interest in reading all the published volumes of the diary. Anaïs, with her wacky and neurotic nature, makes me feel as if every time I'm reading her diary, it's like having a lunch date with her. I also enjoy reading her words right before going to bed. I don't know, but I feel that it would be a disservice if I read her when I'm not in the right, introspective, and analytical mind-state that one has when journaling. I truly want to understand and absorb as much as possible, so I don't think I can read this on a train or in a quick moment. I really enjoyed this account of her life. I like the new characters that have entered her life. One thing I will always love is her perception of Henry and her consistent comparisons between Henry and Gonzalo. Gonzalo desired violence and justice but never took any action. Helba was selfish, wanting to bring everyone down to her level of suffering. I can't imagine the stress Anaïs felt in supporting all these individuals while she herself was struggling. However, her narcissism was quite evident in this volume. While she left a mystical impression on all her lovers, friends, and protégés, she isn't their cult leader. I understand providing aid to the underdog, but she took on too much responsibility and equated too many burdens, claiming she doesn't welcome any conflict. I loved her meditations on metamorphosis, her becoming more knowledgeable and comfortable with her previously declared aversion to transformation. It was really interesting to see the downfall of her father. Her loss of faith in him and ultimately her love was truly captivating to read. How Anaïs never villainized Maruca was really remarkable and showed that the narcissism was inherent in her father. We love a girl who stands by her fellow girls, lol. But yeah, her father got what was coming to him. I also enjoyed reading about Helene. The most codependent and neurotic person finding her sense of self is an arc that I wish to embark on personally. Finally, her take on war as a collective display of many unrealized conflicts and absolute madness was a super interesting perspective. Anyway, I can't wait to read the next volume and underline and annotate it to pieces as well!

The overall impression is rather underwhelming.

To be fair, there are moments of nice writing. However, truth be told, she doesn't seem like a particularly insightful, intelligent or interesting individual.

Her thoughts and ideas lack depth and originality. It's as if she is just skimming the surface of various topics without really delving into them.

While her writing may have some aesthetic appeal, it fails to engage the reader on a deeper level.

There is a distinct lack of substance, and it leaves one feeling rather disappointed.

Perhaps with more effort and a greater willingness to explore her own thoughts and experiences, she could develop into a more engaging and thought-provoking writer.

But as it stands, her work falls short of expectations.

Can't get enough. This simple phrase holds a world of meaning. It implies a sense of insatiability, a longing that just won't be quenched.

Maybe it's the desire for more knowledge, for that next book or course that will expand our understanding. Or perhaps it's the craving for a particular food or experience, something that leaves us yearning for more.

In a world where we are constantly bombarded with choices and distractions, the idea of not being able to get enough can seem both exciting and overwhelming. It can drive us to pursue our passions with vigor, or it can lead to a sense of restlessness and dissatisfaction.

But perhaps it's this very inability to get enough that makes life so interesting. It keeps us on our toes, always seeking, always striving for something more. So the next time you find yourself thinking "can't get enough," embrace it. Let it fuel your journey and see where it takes you.

Nearly breathless, I find myself in a state of anticipation. I am about to pen down something in here very soon. The excitement courses through my veins, as if I am on the verge of uncovering a hidden treasure. My mind is racing with ideas, each one vying for my attention. I can feel the words bubbling up within me, eager to be released onto the page. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and focus my thoughts. With my pen in hand, I am ready to embark on this writing journey. I know that what I write may not be perfect, but it will be a reflection of my true self. So, here I go, ready to let my creativity flow and see where it takes me.

Quando un desiderio è bloccato, la maggior parte della gente reagisce con filosofia. Ma in me, il desiderio sconfitto è una porzione di vita che viene ucciso.

The literary output of an extraordinary author, whom I love very much, like Anais Nin, is rather extensive. For me, it is still an unknown but beautiful opportunity to get to know and study her in depth. Three novels before this one, love declarations to ambitious and powerful men, rambles about life and sex without any hesitation were full of << magic >>, evocative words that explain nothing but the soul of an ordinary girl trapped in a world that is slowly crumbling before her eyes and in which every ordinary woman, and not only, feels the desire to assert herself in the individual world but with panic and a certain hysteria.

These Diaries, precisely this second one, were conceived as a need to pour into that imperfect container scraps of a torn soul, severed by time and space through which I could understand the frustration, the bitterness that plagued the author, often when she sat at the desk and wrote. Great and extraordinary men who did not know poverty and suffering could not understand the meaning behind these words. But not her, who grasped this state, revealed a fragment of her understanding. Aspiring to the absolute in the creation and explanation of love, impetuous, violent, voluntary, spasmodic, and desiring to overcome the impersonal, unthinkable, and unacceptable boundaries through which one embraces life, stopping precisely at what should be rather than what is. Because no matter how hard one tries to achieve the opposite, experience can never replace wisdom. Painstakingly, she tried to find a complete meaning of existence, thus arriving at the conclusion that it is absurd, illogical, and meaningless. But there is no true cosmic meaning for everything as much as one desires to attribute a particular meaning to it.

The quantity, the drama, and the conflict against the loss of one's own identity, of one's essence, are impersonal. Symbols of the American drama, the spirit that would like to control memory, matter. And here, the effort to discover something obvious and coherent, which settles inside her like a seed of her creativity, of her genius, together with the mysteries that life reserves for us, shows the signs of an instantaneous, immediate, spontaneous art, more in line with her soul, before it passes through her cerebral conduits and becomes an abstraction, an invention, a lie. And this need to discover in the depths is harmful because in this way the woman would disappear comparatively. Becoming blind, or at least pretending not to see.

In the confusion of sexual odors, of just spilled ink, of alcohol and drugs, I thought that Nin had always put herself in others' shoes, constantly, because only in this way could she understand literature. The power of writing, because no one before her wallowed in the mud and at the same time could rise again. Those very ones who rebelled, protested anguishedly, frightened people, obsessed them to such an extent that they << alienated >> them from their own works. The surrealists believed that it was possible to live by superimposition, expressing past and present, dream and reality, convinced that man was two-dimensional, that there is no such thing as or one experiences something that transcends from the same life existing within a multilateral state. And from here comes my incommensurable love for her: to make something that has a different splendor shine with its own light, a light with a more intense color. The violent desire to be inside warmth and colors, to live breathing pleasure, never being alone, breaking the isolation as something crazy but absolutely necessary.

This is a type of neurosis, a modern form of writing and romanticism that generates a thirst for perfection, the obsession with living what one has only imagined, and this reveals illusions, the rejection of reality, the power to imagine the << ability >> to suffer without being able to endure it, endowed with a certain creative force that turns into destruction. Giving birth to an idea, which is described and calibrated with a certain exaggeration and of which life itself is at its peak, so real and passionate, conscious and detached. A refuge for her simple and passionate soul, a way to express her creativity when she believed that the world could not change, thus creating a personal one.

Nin was surely an inspired type but with a good, sensitive, great, and powerful soul. Science could have helped her to illuminate her path, to open her mind, a poetic illumination of existence that makes the patients of life fall in love, that restores it. Writing thus becomes a way to be free, to make the soul vibrate with a melody all its own, shaking off the burden of the naked and crude reality while showing our fears, our weaknesses. Projected into a historical period of pure and true disintegration and dismemberment, in which art is not considered a vocation but a profession, a reflection, a religion, a disease, a way of escape, a form of neurosis from which one flees, one feels adrift. Perhaps a good way to escape the fatality of a static, tragic, cruel world? A trick to find refuge in art through poetry?

Life is a long rope from which we precariously extricate ourselves, we seek the absolute only in multiplicity. In scattered elements, in more lives, in tightrope walkers who seem to be endowed with synthetic symphony, outside of all things, in a plot that is not real and human but that poetry shakes as if struck. The woman desires to be tamed, involved in any amorous and poetic intrigue, even if enclosed in desperate gestures, afflictions, people trapped in particular tragedies from which one tries to have compassion. And, overall, they cling to others, dispersing, atrophying, leading them before the void, the split, schizophrenia. Devoured by a strong feeling that makes it impossible for them not to feel emotions for others.

Ascent into the future, into exultation, into poetic brilliance, so noisy and disturbing, these diaries are an invitation to look inside oneself and from which the author herself can abdicate. How? By interacting with others. Changing from a small and gentle French girl, diminished in an intelligent and sinful charm, into something big and powerful that will sooner or later discover a new world, with vivid, vast, and gigantic values. Completely swept away, tickling the skin, twisting the viscera, given happiness, an imprecise happiness that has disintegrated me. Among artists, writers, her ambivalence stands out, her courage to support her own personal condition in order to follow a shared action, through a distorted fluidity of dreams, the fear of losing something or someone that only time can soothe. Irremediably attached to the external world, thus seeking love and color.

How I love Anais!

She is becoming increasingly strange and yet more familiar to me with each passing volume. I am in awe of how meticulously she weaves not only the allure of her diary but also the magical web of her entire being. She reveals the essence of those dear to her heart, her ideas, dreams, dislikes, and struggles.

I envision us together once more, this time escaping the cold and attending a dinner party in a mysterious Europe that I have only heard tales of. I see the profound radiance that emanates from her, and I feel the corresponding jeweled facets of my own personality emerging to greet her.

I aspire to be as much like her as possible. I am overjoyed at the thought of how many volumes remain to be read, and how much more of her captivating personality there is to observe, slowly and without blinking.

Her words draw me in, and I am eager to continue delving into the depths of her world, uncovering the hidden treasures that lie within each page.

With each new discovery, I feel a deeper connection to her, and I am inspired to embrace my own unique qualities and share them with the world.

Anais is not just an author; she is a muse, a source of inspiration, and a friend who I have yet to meet in person.

But through her writing, she has touched my heart and soul, and for that, I will always be grateful.

Anais is not just a dancer and writer; she is essentially an angel. She played a crucial role in making the publication of Henry Miller's first novel possible. She was also an assistant to Otto Rank, one of the pioneers of psychoanalysis and, unfortunately, a misogynist. Despite this, Anais adored him and helped with his clients and translated his works into English. However, the translation process took a lot of time, and she became disappointed with psychoanalysis due to its objectivity.

She then fled to Paris, making a brief stop in Morocco. In Paris, Henry Miller was reaping the first fruits of his fame with the publication and warm reception of 'Tropic of Cancer'. But he remained the same Henry, lacking empathy and caring only about food and his books. Anais, on the other hand, was capable of true love, compassion, and empathy. She wrote a warm and heartfelt diary documenting Henry's days in Paris, including their talks, remarks on books, and letters.

Another important aspect of the diary is the couple Gonzalo and Helba. They fled from Peru, and while Helba was a deaf and ill former Inca dancer, Gonzalo was a revolutionary wannabe who hung around Pablo Neruda. Just as Miller was obsessed with writing, Gonzalo was obsessed with Spain, Marxism, and revolution. Passionate people, artists, and revolutionaries always attracted Anais, and she carefully preserved their stories.

The diary also captures the bohemian Parisian life that was slowly crashing into reality. With the civil war in Spain and the rising fascism, the world was on the brink of disaster. The diary serves as a character in itself, being discussed, reviewed, commented on, praised, and criticized. But for Anais, the diary was like breathing. It was a living and breathing thing, just like when Artaud said she inhales carbon dioxide and exhales oxygen when she breathes. The events in the diary come fast and immediate, never boring, and it beautifully captures the different modes of escapism of the artist in a world that is about to fall.

Diario II. Anais, now more mature and increasingly aware, experiences life in the style that those who love and are loved by her recognize: voluntariness, selflessness, generosity, sacrifice, and giving. But at the same time, there is also a sense of consciousness and detachment, almost. This 'detachment' is useful for the rewriting of daily actions, which is not just a mere chronicle. Probably, a lot of what was recorded has not been published, and I feel it between the pages as I read. Then it happens that I add my own imagination, inserting myself between the lines and thoughts of this always much-loved author.

There are wonderful pages about the creative capacity of women, which, on the threshold of my complete old age, make me turn my head and look back at my own path traveled so far.

There are realistic considerations about the uselessness of revolutions and wars, given the nature of man, and this cannot but seem true to me after reading dozens of books on various wars and genocides.

Hope seems not to exist, and it seems that she herself does not have it because she knows everything about people thanks to great empathy and love, as well as her psychoanalytic abilities.

Famous are the literary 'portraits' of those she met, whether they were famous people or not, so detailed and sometimes poetic.

I will find Anais again in the third diary, in New York, while Europe is already in the midst of a full-scale world war.

I carefully spread out on my bed all the wonderful gifts that I had brought all the way from New York. There was a beautiful set of wooden dishes, with their astrologic symbols delicately engraved against the blue-painted edges. It was truly a sight to behold.

I couldn't wait for the evening to come when we would have a special dinner and invite the renowned Antonin Artaud. The anticipation was palpable.

I imagined the lively conversations and the exchange of ideas that would take place around the dinner table. It was going to be a memorable event, filled with inspiration and creativity.

Anais Nin's diary entry captured this moment perfectly, and I felt a connection to her as I prepared for this special occasion.