"Don't say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you."

Literary fiction authors, it's time to step aside. Anaïs Nin is the true boss of the "no thought, no plot, just vibes and gorgeous writing" genre. Her words have the power to transport readers into a world of intense emotions and complex psychological states. In the quoted passage, we can sense the turmoil within the narrator. The fear of being understood, yet the longing for connection, creates a palpable tension. Anaïs Nin's writing style is both poetic and profound, allowing readers to explore the depths of the human psyche. Her work is a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most powerful stories are those that are told through emotions and vibes rather than a traditional plot. With her unique approach to writing, Anaïs Nin has left an indelible mark on the literary world.

La mañana que me levanté para comenzar este libro, tosí. Algo salía de mi garganta: me estaba estrangulando. Rompí el hilo que lo sostenía y lo saqué de un tirón. Volví a la cama y dije: Acabo de escupir mi corazón.

This is the first work I read of Anaïs Nin, after seeing scattered phrases and poems of hers that marked me. And House of Incest did not disappoint me. I was afraid to read this story at the beginning, thinking that it would really talk about an incestuous relationship and that this would be very dark for me, but no. This is not a conventional story, it is not a linear reading or with a plot as such. It is more a poetic description of her desires and obsessions with the forbidden, which is why she uses the word incest as a symbol of that passion that cannot be satisfied and fills it with guilt.

Sabina is the figure most mentioned throughout the story. It is not completely understood whether this woman represents Anaïs' desire to deepen the complexity of homosexual relationships between women, as she does in other of her works. Or if Sabina is a reflection of Anaïs herself and represents the need to connect more with her feminine side. In any case, both relationships are interpreted as forbidden and unattainable.

Anaïs wants to express with her metaphors the intensity of loving someone so much that a symbiosis is generated with their being, until only existence in relation to the other remains. She talks about how loneliness makes you desire a deep connection with someone who is like her and understands her inner world, desperately seeking it but afraid to find it and have to stop being the only person of importance to herself.

Classifying this book as "erotic novel" falls short, as it is much more than that, much more passionate and profound than what books in this category usually are. This is a story to feel, not to understand.

Kash from Anaïs Nin was more translated that has a long dream in words, with open eyes.

The words that seem to have passed through hell.

Freydoon Khatami translated the book with the name “Sabina”; the translation is accurate except for a few lines that are not translated or deleted because of censorship.

It is a pity that not more of Anaïs Nin's works are translated. Her words hold a long dream within them, and it is as if we can see with open eyes through her writing.

Freydoon Khatami's translation of "Sabina" is mostly accurate, but those few lines that are affected by censorship leave us longing for a more complete understanding of the original work.

Perhaps if more of Anaïs Nin's works were translated, we could truly immerse ourselves in the world she creates with her words and experience the depth of her dreams and emotions.

The woman most burdened in the world am I. I tire when I stand. Life demands efforts that I cannot make. Please, hand me that heavy book - I need to place something as heavy as it on my head. And I must always keep my feet beneath the weights so that I stay put on the earth, otherwise I will feel as if I am leaving, leaving to a distant place at an imaginary speed because of my fear. I know that I am dead, and in the moment that I utter the word, my life dies and it becomes a lie that trembles in my body. Don't say anything because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding this. For I am afraid of finding someone who resembles me and desires the same thing to happen! I am the totality of the unit but I am afraid that my isolation will be broken and I will no longer be the ruler of my world and its mistress. I am very much afraid of your understanding through which you penetrate into my world, when I will become exposed and aware, and I must share my world with you.

But, oh Jean, it is the fear of madness. Only the fear of madness will take us out of our circles of isolation and sanctity. It is the fear of madness that will burn the walls of our hidden house and send us towards the world singing a warm unity. For the worlds that the self creates and builds are only worlds full of ghosts and phantoms.

I know nothing but fear, this is true. Fear chokes me so I stand dumbfounded and mute and I have lost my breath like a person deprived of the particles of air. And at other times I cannot hear anything, and I suddenly become deaf to this world. I stomp on the earth with my feet and I hear nothing. I shout and I hear nothing of my shout. And sometimes when I lie down on the bed, fear creeps into my bones again. A great terror of this silence and of what is hidden within me and on the walls of my temples that it touches. A great and choking fear that grows and grows. Knock on the walls, stomp on the earth until I drive out the silence. Knock and sing and shout continuously until I drive out the fear from me.

This is wonderful and an enjoyable narrative, sixty pages of pain, the book has touched my heart deeply.

In the past, I walked forward on my own, waiting for the arrival of miracles.

I am a prisoner, a prisoner of my lies, and I have a desire for redemption. I cannot tell the truth because I feel the heads of men inside my chest. The truth is a dead behavior, and I prefer the stories of the past. I am entangled in lies that do not penetrate my heart, as if the lies I tell are like clothes. The skin of the secret can be torn and grow again on the night. But the moment I entered the cave of my lies, I dripped drop by drop into the darkness. I see a face that is lost to me, like the gaze of a one-eyed man.

Sabina/Anais Nin/Translated by Farid Qadimi/Published by Nimaz.

Her writing has a certain allure that is truly captivating.

It is as if her words are a gentle whisper that delicately enters my mind, carrying with them the essence of the night.

Each sentence seems to be a transcription of the night itself, painting a vivid and mysterious picture.

The softness of her language mimics the tranquility of the night, lulling me into a state of relaxation and wonder.

As I read her words, I can almost feel the cool breeze of the night caressing my face and hear the soft rustling of leaves.

Her writing has the power to transport me to a world where the night reigns supreme, a world full of secrets and hidden emotions.

It is a unique and enchanting experience that leaves me longing for more.

I should commence this review by stating that Anaïs Nin's employment of the term "incest" in this context is metaphorical, not literal.

Earlier in the year, when I searched for "books to read when you're having a quarter-life crisis" on Google, Anaïs Nin and her copious journals emerged. I made a note of her and then, a few months later, I discovered a copy of Volume 7 of one of her diaries in a secondhand bookstore. Prior to commencing the journal, I desired to read something shorter to gain an understanding of her as a writer before delving directly into her diary, essays, etc. So, last night, I initiated her novel 'House of Incest'.

I believed that I would relate to the surrealistic exploration within the narrator's subconscious mind, imprisoned in a dream from which she wishes to flee. On numerous levels, I did establish a connection with it, yet I also found myself becoming lost in her words and descriptions.

Beginning with 'House of Incest' right off the bat, without having read any of Nin's other works, was a highly unintentional display of overconfidence. Now, I am aware that I will return and commence with her non-fiction, familiarize myself, and then revisit these 72 pages of 'House of Incest' once more. Probably, when I can properly appreciate it, I will assign it a higher rating. Who am I to award Anaïs Nin only 3 stars? Lol, it seems absurd, but for the time being, it makes sense to me.

BEWARE:

This is a short poetical prose that vividly portrays a woman who feels restricted in her love for her brother. She has a burning desire to live life to the fullest, to experience every moment with intensity. However, as the story progresses, she becomes acutely aware of the limitations that bind her. It is truly an interesting work of art, with a certain indulgence in its beautiful poetry.

I must admit that I am not the most proficient reader when it comes to poetry. But as I delved into this story, I found myself gradually getting better at understanding and appreciating its nuances. By the end of the story, I had developed a newfound respect for the power of words and the emotions they can convey.

Unfortunately, just as I was beginning to fully immerse myself in this world of poetry and emotion, the story ended all too soon. It left me longing for more, eager to explore further the complex feelings and experiences of the woman in the prose.

Frankly, frankly, frankly..

And to be extremely frank..

I almost didn't understand anything!

It's a kind of darkness, mystery, and strangeness, but not the kind that you read and gets attracted.. I don't know how to describe it, but it's something like confusion and boredom with a bit of disgust and annoyance!!!

I dislike it.

Significance seems to be all around me, as if it is a huge underlying specter.

It emerges from the dank alleys and the somber faces of people. It leans out of the windows of strange houses, constantly catching my attention.

I find myself constantly reconstructing a pattern of something that is forever lost, yet impossible for me to forget.

On street corners, I catch the odors of the past, which bring back memories that I cannot escape.

And I am also aware of the men who will be born tomorrow, as if they hold some unknown significance for me.

Everywhere I look, significance stares back at me, making me feel both connected to the past and anticipation for the future.

Would I dare re-reading it?

It has resided in a hazy, dreamy realm within my mind for decades.

From the very first pages, it has been among my absolute favorites.

Maybe I should simply leave it be, untouched and unaltered.

However, there is also the allure of engaging in the auto-iconoclastic act of rebuilding my emotional memory.

Rereading it could potentially bring back a flood of emotions and memories that have long been buried or forgotten.

It might force me to confront aspects of myself and my past that I have been reluctant to face.

On the other hand, it could also offer a new perspective and a deeper understanding of the work and its significance to me.

Ultimately, the decision to re-read it lies within me, and only time will tell if I have the courage to take that step.

**"The House of Prohibitions"**

The House of Prohibitions is a book that you will never be able to decide about. Its text seems coherent, but you don't know what makes it special! You feel stressed while reading as you follow one thread of thought after another until you wonder about anything that Antinous is saying.

It seems like a mixture of elements of a novel or perhaps you could describe it as thoughts (if that's the case, then they are crazy and extensive thoughts).

What counts for the text is its ability to address all the senses of the reader. The description of the spirits, tastes, and touches is precise and creative. But it's a very strange address. I'm still amazed in this regard.

One question haunts me as I read the book... What drug did he take before writing the book? Is there a safe answer?