The text seems rather incomprehensible to me. It brings to my mind a film: Room in Rome. The language is a magical analysis, and its text here is very self-contained. *** Sabina no longer struggles with men and women. In the heat of her anxiety, the world loses its human nature, and she loses the ability to adapt her body to another with human stickiness. She would penetrate the horizons and rush to unknown dimensionless stars, thus losing her polarity and her sacred identity by equating the intellectual abilities in the single self. She would spread herself like the night over the universe and whatever she found as a god she would oppose it. The other half belongs to the sun and she is in conflict with the sun and the light, so she cannot bear the rays falling on an open book, cannot bear a harmonious set of ideas that a common value gathers; the sun will not cover her, and half of the world belongs to it; she would return her actions to that one who can cover her dignity by giving her the pleasure of giving birth. ***

\\n  \\n

This description appears to be a complex exploration of Sabina's inner world and her relationship with the universe and the elements. The use of vivid imagery and abstract concepts makes it a thought-provoking piece. However, its density and somewhat esoteric nature might make it challenging for some readers to fully grasp. It could potentially benefit from further clarification or expansion in certain areas to enhance its comprehensibility. Overall, it offers a unique perspective on themes such as identity, sexuality, and the human connection to the cosmos.

Mind boggling beautiful, that's all I can say after first reading this amazing piece of work.

The words seemed to dance off the page, captivating my attention from the very first sentence.

The author's use of language was truly remarkable, painting vivid pictures in my mind and evoking a wide range of emotions.

I found myself completely immersed in the story, unable to tear my eyes away.

It was as if I was transported to another world, experiencing everything along with the characters.

This is the kind of writing that makes you think, makes you feel, and leaves a lasting impression.

I can't wait to read more from this talented author and see what other masterpieces they have in store.

Overall, this was an unforgettable reading experience that I will cherish for a long time to come.

  
    All that I know is contained in this book written without witness, an edifice without dimension, a city hanging in the sky.
  

This is the first book I’ve read of Anais Nin. A friend recommended “Henry and June”, but I don’t have that yet. So, I thought it’s not so bad to start with Nin’s first published book instead. Originally published in 1936, House of Incest was a challenging read for me. The prose was written in a dream-like fashion, so surreal that it felt like she was serenading me with strange melancholy, hypnotizing me to drift into a nightmare she was experiencing. I got lost a couple of times. It’s quite a short book, but it really demands a reader’s full attention.

I am ill with the obstinacy of images, reflections in cracked mirrors. I am a woman with Siamese cat eyes smiling always behind my gravest words, mocking my own intensity. I smile because I listen to the OTHER and believe the OTHER. I am a marionette pulled by unskilled fingers, pulled apart, inharmoniously dislocated; one arm dead and the other rhapsodizing in mid air

This book was controversial as somewhere in it, Nin had veiledly written about her incestuous relationship with her father. But, the Incest referred here was in a metaphorical sense and not the literal one. It was the obsession with oneself, a selfish love, a nightmare where she was battling with her duality and needed to emerge from it.

  
    If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other, if only I could save you all from yourselves
  

Nin embraced her vulnerability and bared herself in this book. It was a confession like no other. She was well known for her erotic writings, which were explicit yet bathed in eloquence, making me thirst for more.

  
    A voice that had traversed the centuries, so heavy it broke what it touched, so heavy I feared it would ring in me with eternal resonance, a voice rusty with the sound of curses and the hoarse cries that issue from the delta in the last paroxysm of orgasm.
  

Buddy read with Anya! <3
Read her wonderfully written review here
Such lush prose, such beautiful imagery! I may cry.

Oh, how do I describe this book? A mere 72 pages it was, but the prose was so profound, the words so wonderful, and the language so lush that I haven't read anything like it in a long, long time. Was it erotica? Sure. But it was so much more than that! There is a raw beauty to the words, a beauty that I cannot explain with my limited vocabulary. So, I shall give you a taste of the wondrous gift that is House of Incest.

The night surrounded me, a photograph unglued from its frame. The lining of a coat ripped open like the two shells of an oyster. The day and night unglued, and I falling in between not knowing on which layer I was resting, whether it was the cold grey upper leaf of dawn, or the dark layer of night.

A love so powerful, between the narrator and Sabina, a woman described so magnificently, you cannot help but be intrigued by. A tale of love so deep, so profound, and so wonderfully raw that you cannot help but immerse yourself in it. A loss so deep, a heart shattered, a woman separated from what was the reflection of herself.

And she and I, we recognized each other; I her face and she my legend.
Our faces are soldered together by soft hair, soldered together, showing two profiles of the same soul. Even when I passed through a room like a breath, I made others uneasy and they knew I had passed. This is the book you wrote, and you are the woman I am.
If Sabina were now a memory; if I should sit here and she should never come again! If I only imagined her one night because the drug made fine incisions and arranged the layers of my body on Persian silk hammocks, tipped with cotton each fine nerve and sent the radium arrows of fantasy through the flesh…

I mentioned in one of my previous reviews that I'd read perhaps the most eloquently written orgasm ever. Well, Mr. Gaiman, I'm sorry to snatch your crown, but this book gets that distinction.
Around my pulse she put a flat steel bracelet and my pulse beat as she willed, losing its human cadence, thumping like a savage in orgiastic frenzy. The lamentations of flutes, the double chant of wind through our slender bones, the cracking of our bones distantly remembered when on beds of down the worship we inspire turned to lust.

Bear in mind though, that incest isn't always as crude as interbreeding, or even forbidden love; incest is when you are passionately and utterly in love with someone who reflects everything that you are.
If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other, if only I could save you all from yourselves, said the modern Christ.

I will leave you with this gem, because this book is art that has to be felt, these are words that have to be savoured, and a mere mortal like me can never do justice to something as great as this.
Yet we knew that beyond the house of incest there was daylight, and none of us could walk towards it.

Fatty has done a much better job at reviewing this book than I have. Find her review here

This book, House of Incest, is truly a masterpiece. The author's use of language is simply breathtaking. Each sentence is crafted with such care and precision that it feels like a work of art. The story itself is complex and deeply emotional, exploring themes of love, loss, and self-discovery. The relationship between the narrator and Sabina is both beautiful and tragic, and it draws the reader in from the very beginning. The descriptions of the characters and their surroundings are so vivid that you can almost picture them in your mind's eye. Overall, this is a book that I would highly recommend to anyone who appreciates great literature. It is a book that will stay with you long after you have finished reading it.

"Please, give me that heavy book. I need to put something as heavy as it on my head. And I must always keep my feet under the cushions until I'm firmly on the ground, otherwise I will feel as if I'm leaving, leaving far away at an imaginary speed because of my fear."

...

"She resisted as death was coming to her: I don't love anyone, I don't love any person, not even my brother. I don't love anything except this absence of pain, this cold, empty absence of pain."

This passage presents a rather dark and emotional scene. The first part shows a person's strange need to have a heavy object on their head and to keep their feet in a certain position, perhaps as a way to ground themselves or feel a sense of stability in the face of an unknown fear. The second part reveals a character's resistance to death and their claim of not loving anything or anyone, except for the absence of pain. It gives a sense of a person who has been through a lot of suffering and has become numb to everything else. Overall, the passage creates a mood of melancholy and desolation.

I initially thought this work was unreadable, with the exception of the introduction. When I picked it up, I wasn't even aware that it was poetry because on her Wikipedia page, it was described as a novel. With very few exceptions, I simply don't have a great affinity for non-narrative poetry. However, even for poetry, I found this particular piece to be rather bad, clumsy, and clichéd.

If you desire to get a sense of what it's like to read this small volume, just peruse some of the glowing reviews, which I find equally obtuse. I did think the photographs were interesting, and the introduction was also engaging as it informed me that no publisher was willing to publish this in 1934. In the end, it was self-published with the assistance of her lover, Henry Miller. I couldn't help but think that perhaps there was a valid reason why no one else picked it up.

Maybe the lack of a clear narrative or the overly simplistic and trite language used in the poetry didn't appeal to the mainstream publishers at that time. Or perhaps it was just ahead of its time and didn't fit into the established literary norms. Whatever the reason, it's clear that this work has had a somewhat tumultuous journey to publication.

The sheer depth and magnitude of what this woman does with language is astonishing.

From the very moment I was introduced to Anaïs Nin, I found myself completely and utterly obsessed.

Her words have a magical quality that draws me in and keeps me captivated.

Every sentence she writes seems to be carefully crafted, filled with profound meaning and emotion.

I can't get enough of her work.

I want more and more.

I long to explore every corner of her literary world, to discover the hidden gems and secrets that lie within her pages.

Anaïs Nin has truly opened my eyes to a new way of seeing and experiencing language.

She is a master of her craft, and I am in awe of her talent.

I will continue to devour her books, eager to learn from her and be inspired by her unique voice.

Give me more more more of Anaïs Nin!

A Strange Book and a Poor Translation

Recently, I came across a strange book. The content within its pages seemed to be from another world, filled with unique ideas and concepts that were difficult to grasp at first glance. However, what made the experience even more frustrating was the poor translation. The translator seemed to have struggled to accurately convey the meaning of the original text, resulting in a lot of confusion and misunderstandings. It was as if the essence of the book was lost in the translation process. Despite this, I still found myself intrigued by the strange book and its mysterious contents. I wonder if there is a better translation out there that could truly bring this book to life and allow readers to fully appreciate its value.

My arms were taken away from me, she sang.

I was punished for my intense clinging. I just couldn't help but cling tightly. I clutched all those I deeply loved, and I also clutched at the lovely and precious moments of life. My hands firmly closed upon every full and wonderful hour.

My arms were always in a tight state, constantly craving to embrace everything. I had a strong desire to embrace and hold the light that shone so brightly, the gentle wind that blew, the warm sun that gave life, the mysterious night that brought tranquility, and even the whole wide world.

I wanted to caress, to heal, to rock, to lull, to surround, and to encompass all that was beautiful and dear to me. But in my eagerness and straining, I held on so tightly that they eventually broke. They broke away from my desperate grasp.

And then, everything seemed to elude me. I was condemned to a state where I could no longer hold onto the things and moments that meant the most to me. It was a heart-wrenching situation that filled her with a sense of loss and despair.

If we understand the background from which the writer writes, then the surprise will disappear. We are facing a "Freudian" woman who was abandoned by her father when she was young and then had a sexual relationship with him when she grew up, in order to take revenge for that abandonment!! And then she wrote this symbolic serial text to perpetuate that "taboo", imitating what the daughters of Lot did (according to the Torah) and using the descriptive scene, and she quoted ""And while she was walking distractedly from one room to another, she entered the room of the tablets, there sat Lot and his hand on the thigh of his daughter, while the city behind them was burning"...

Without judgment, for the starting point conflicts and simplifies the most basic and natural human values, perhaps even the animalistic instinct does not allow that either...

"There is a profound fissure in my vision, and through it, madness perpetually rushes. It's as if a dark torrent is constantly flowing, threatening to consume me. Lean over me, right at the bedside of my madness. Let me stand without the support of crutches. I am an insane woman, you see. For me, houses seem to wink and open their bellies, revealing secrets that are both terrifying and alluring. Significance stares at me from every conceivable direction, like a gigantic underlying ghostliness that haunts my every step. It emerges out of the dank alleys and the sombre faces of strangers. It leans out of the windows of strange houses, as if beckoning me towards an unknown destiny. I am constantly engaged in the arduous task of reconstructing a pattern of something that is forever lost and which I simply cannot forget. I catch the elusive odors of the past on street corners, and in those fleeting moments, I am vividly aware of the men who will be born tomorrow. Behind the windows, there are either enemies lurking in the shadows or worshippers filled with adoration. There is never any neutrality or passivity. Always, there is intention and premeditation. Even the stones beneath my feet have for me druidical expressions, as if they are trying to communicate some ancient wisdom. I walk ahead of myself, in a state of perpetual expectancy of miracles, hoping that one day, the madness will subside and I will find peace."

What do they say about those pretty words that are strung together to form passages filled with symbolism and implications? Some of these are beyond the comprehension of a dilettante like me. How do they classify Anaïs Nin's writing?

'Erotica', perhaps they like to call it, focusing on the sexual imagery that Nin invokes with the elegance of her pen.

But I would rather not confine Nin's genius within the mundane prison of a genre like erotica. Her words, like splashes of the most exotic watercolor, come together to form an abstract painting of such intense beauty that one can only gaze in wonder at the fantastical picture that takes shape in the mind's eye.

Her words are magical. They breathe life into the seemingly lifeless form of a road stretching ahead. They transform a taboo subject like incest into a understandable, even acceptable reality of our existence, temporarily detaching us from the social conventions of the material world as we know them. Her words transport us to a secluded, floating world where only the surreal landscapes of Nin's imagination spread out in all their majestic glory. And the reader can only be an infatuated traveler enjoying a unique sojourn, savoring all the incomprehensible loveliness of Nin's prose in small doses.

Her words grant a kind of literary immortality to so many hackneyed human emotions and sentiments.

Her words are exquisite poetry.

I do understand why Rowena and Lynne kept recommending Anaïs Nin to me. I will now embark on the quest to obtain all of her published writings.