There is a category of books whose technical writing stands out with its compositions and poetic images. This category writes in a complex way and with great effort on the text. They are wonderful, but their writing does not rely on a single idea but a complex network of nerves. The subconscious is dominant, with non-real worlds as if you are dealing with a kind of hallucinations.

Anaiys Nen is one of these. Her poetic language is overwhelming, but at some point, you will feel that she is a deceitful writer. You are charmed by the ingenuity of the singularity until you are blind to the defenses of ideas.

And I don't know if I like the book or not.

Although the language is difficult and often I bet on the failure of this type, but I think it is worth it.

The loved one's whitest flesh, that delicate and precious part, is precisely what the sharp broken glass will mercilessly cut and the heavy wheel will brutally crush.

In the stillness of the night, the long and mournful howls that pierce the air are not just sounds but the very howls of death itself.

Night, instead of being a time of rest and peace, becomes the sinister collaborator of the torturers. It shrouds their deeds in darkness, hiding the horror and pain that they inflict.

The combination of the vulnerability of the loved one's flesh, the violence of the glass and wheel, and the malevolence of the night creates a truly terrifying and tragic scene. It is a scene that fills one with a sense of dread and despair, as if there is no escape from the clutches of this cruel fate.

I have a confession to make.

I am an ardent lover of reading Anais Nin's work. Her writing, which can be translated as erotica, is truly something extraordinary. It is not just mere erotica; rather, it is a collection of beautiful words strung together with such finesse that they flow in your mind like a gentle stream of water caressing your most intimate parts, stimulating your brain to the point of orgasm.

I have never been able to find the appropriate words to describe the sheer beauty and power of her work. It is simply indescribable. Even attempting to do so seems futile.

"House of Incest" takes me to another dimension within its 72-page length. It is a dimension of dreams, desires, love and lust, death and life. It gives me the hallucination of an armless dancer gracefully twirling around in my head, a sight that is both strange and otherworldly.

"House of Incest" is Nin's way of bleeding through her words, her ultimate confession, and her vulnerability laid bare. And then come these words that speak directly to my soul:

"I'm 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'm a 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.

But Jeanne, fear of madness, only fear of madness will drive us out of the precincts of our solitude, out of the sacredness of our solitude. The fear of madness will burn down the wall of our secret house, send us out into the world seeking warm contact. Worlds self-made and self-nourished are so full of ghosts and monsters."

Among all my literary goddesses, Nin would be the one I would most want to become if I were ever a writer.

Mooie taal maar ik begreep er weinig van. Indeed, the language used in this work was beautiful, but unfortunately, I could understand only a little of it. Nou hoef je van poëzie natuurlijk niet altijd wat te begrijpen, but it is also true that I didn't feel very engaged by it. And that's a pity because I thought Delta of Venus was really cool and I find Anaïs Nin an interesting author. So, I had expected to like this little book as well. Well, I can see that in the context of its time, it must have been an extraordinary work, and I value it for that. However, apart from that, I found House of Incest (I read the Dutch version but it's not listed on Goodreads) mainly very confusing and not very meaningful.