Eh, it's a diary. She repeats herself a lot.

It seems that in this diary, the author has a tendency to go over the same points again and again. Maybe she is really passionate about certain topics or experiences, which leads to her repeating herself.

However, this repetition can also make the diary a bit monotonous. It might be better if she could vary her表达方式 and explore different aspects of the same subject.

On the other hand, the repetition could also be a sign of her deep thinking and reflection. By repeating certain ideas, she is perhaps trying to solidify them in her mind or gain a better understanding.

Overall, while the repetition in the diary is noticeable, it doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad thing. It could be a unique feature of the author's writing style or a way for her to express her thoughts and feelings more deeply.

The first steps towards freedom are defiant and awkward.

They are like the unsteady gait of a newborn learning to walk. Defiance fuels the determination to break free from the constraints that have held one back. It is the refusal to accept the status quo and the bold decision to chart a new course.

However, these initial steps are often awkward. There is a lack of experience and confidence, and one may stumble and make mistakes along the way. But it is through these awkward moments that growth and learning occur.

Each step, no matter how clumsy, brings one closer to the goal of freedom. It is a journey filled with challenges and uncertainties, but it is also a journey that holds the promise of a brighter future.

So, embrace the defiance and the awkwardness, for they are the building blocks of a life lived in freedom.

The story progresses as Anais relocates to New York for the war period.

What I truly cherish in this is her friendships with women. There's the delicate and charming actress Luise Rainier, the courageous individualist bookseller Frances Steloff of the Gotham Book Mart, and the surrealist patrons, the millionairesses Caresse Crosby and Peggy Guggenheim.

I adored witnessing how her disappointment in publishing "Winter of Artifice" with a commercial publisher doesn't lead to her downfall. Instead, it prompts her to buy a printing press. With the help of the handsome and tenacious Gonzalo, she prints the book herself. It sells through the Gotham Book Mart to collectors, providing a practical example for today's concerns regarding the dematerialization of printed works.

Will the book itself revert to being a collector's item, beautifully printed and bound, crafted only for the select few?

I love the abundance of thoughts about men and women, about prose and poetry... It's like a bolt of silk that continuously unfolds, revealing more and more fascinating aspects.

Shocking when I first read it.

It was truly a moment that left me in a state of disbelief. The words on the page seemed to jump out at me, hitting me with a force I wasn't expecting.

I couldn't help but reread the passage several times, trying to fully comprehend the magnitude of what I was reading.

The details were so vivid and the implications so profound that it felt as if a bomb had gone off in my mind.

I found myself sitting there, stunned, for what felt like an eternity.

It was a moment that would stay with me, forever etching itself into my memory.

Even now, as I think back on that initial reading, I can still feel the shock coursing through me.

It was a powerful experience that made me realize the impact that words can have.

And it served as a reminder that sometimes, the truth can be more shocking than we ever imagined.

Qué envidia me dan todos los que la conocieron.

It makes me so envious of all those who knew her.

I can't help but imagine the wonderful experiences they must have had with her.

Maybe they shared countless laughter and deep conversations.

They might have witnessed her unique charm and kindness.

I wonder what it would have been like to be a part of her life.

To have been there when she smiled, when she cried, when she achieved something great.

The thought of all the memories they have with her makes my heart ache with envy.

But at the same time, it also makes me appreciate the value of those who are in my life now.

I know that I should cherish every moment with them and create my own beautiful memories.

Because in the end, it's the people we know and the experiences we share that truly matter.

Lots of thoughts on this one. It seems to be a topic that has really piqued my interest and got my mind racing. There are so many different angles and aspects that I want to explore and discuss. However, at the moment, my head is a bit congested, perhaps due to a lack of sleep or too much going on. But I promise that as soon as I can clear my mind and think more clearly, I will sit down and write out all the details. I'm looking forward to delving deeper into this and sharing my thoughts and ideas with you all. Stay tuned!

Her writing is always exquisitely beautiful, brimming with imagination that knows no bounds, and possessing an alluring charm that is, for some mysterious reason, peculiarly personal to me. She is, by a wide margin, my most cherished writer. Her words have the power to resonate directly with the very core of my soul.

This work offered a profound insight into her, presenting a magical concept, a realm that was entirely her own, and I was utterly enamored by it. At certain moments, it did seem to drag on a bit: with ruminations about various individuals, needless thoughts that meandered, and letters that were somewhat challenging to place in context. However, throughout the entire piece, there was a distinct voice, a voice of breathtaking beauty, of unfettered freedom, and of love that had the ability to liberate something deep within me.

I was particularly captivated by the part she dedicated to guilt (pages 259 - 260), and her fear of being abandoned by those she loved in an expression of strength. It was truly beautiful. In fact, every aspect of it was beautiful.

Usually, Nin's writing is not my personal favorite. However, in this particular case, it was incredibly interesting and poetic. I read it in Polish, which was the first book I had read in a good few months. This might explain why I found it a little hard to fully get into the book and feel excited by it. The writing was beautiful, but sometimes the floweriness of it made the book drag.

Perhaps if I had read it in my native language, I would have been able to better appreciate the nuances and subtleties of Nin's prose. Nevertheless, there were still many aspects of the book that I found engaging. The story was unique and the characters were well-developed. I also liked the way Nin used language to create a vivid and atmospheric world.

Overall, while I may not have loved this book as much as some others, I still think it was worth reading. It gave me a new perspective on Nin's writing and allowed me to experience a different culture through literature. I would recommend it to anyone who is interested in exploring new authors and languages.

The text delves into the complex nature of Anaïs Nin's writing and her relationships.

There is a significant disparity between the relationships one needs, which are often shaped by negative experiences and traumas, and the ones one truly desires. A certain relationship might offer solace, remove fears, and supply a sense of completion, but it may not be the love one would choose without the influence of these negativities.

Nin's writing is both praised and criticized. While she offers beautiful insights and a unique window into history that diverges from the typical white male perspective, she also has her flaws. She is accused of being inconsistent, sometimes a liar, a fool, or a hypocrite.

Despite her flaws, Nin's work is still fascinating. She mentions many interesting literary figures and her estimations of them vary from amusing to infuriating. The text also touches on Nin's erotica and questions what was left out considering the pedophilia that was included.

In conclusion, while Nin may not be the perfect fit for everyone's reading tastes, her work provides a strange and well-written window into the past that is hard to find elsewhere. 3.5/5

I picked this up at a bookstore in San Francisco.

Little did I know until after I made the purchase that it is part three in a volume of six.

So far, I've only read the preface, and it's clear that it's not autobiographical.

Surprisingly, I quite like the fact that I'm starting in the middle of her life.

From what I can gather, it sounds like she had the romantic life of a vagabond.

I have a feeling that I'm going to be a different person after I read this entire book.

The anticipation is building up inside me as I wonder what adventures and experiences await me within the pages.

I'm excited to explore her world and see how her story unfolds.

Who knows, maybe this book will inspire me to make some changes in my own life and embrace a more adventurous spirit.

The process of writing a diary is like life itself, nourishing rather than devouring, passing through our bodies and senses, not being transformed by art. We all have our demons, such as anger, jealousy, envy, revengefulness, and vanity. I have found a way to cage mine in the diary. Maybe that's why I often dream that the diary is burning. Writing is an important part of living, and an accurate and well-carved phrase can give us great pleasure. In political battles, I often feel ineffective because it's a cynical world where one can only win by force or trickery, which are both unnatural to me. Stories are the only enchantment, for when we see our suffering as a story, we can be saved. We all have a thousand faces and show different sides to different people. To breathe freedom, we need to live close to our primitive shadows. The more we believe in ourselves, the more the world will believe in us. Now, I must write to keep my small world together. I can only talk through writing, as I am mute in life. Like Proust, I need to create some handicap to be able to write instead of being consumed. I am not a saint, neither good nor bad, and neither are you. We all have demons, and we can choose to let them destroy us or tame them. I am swift like an arrow, moving directly towards my aim. Sometimes I think I rebelled against something, but later I realize that I was just asserting my own belief. In creation, I will reveal my true self and all the truth. It's not only the neurotic who lives by irrational impulses, but everyone. We live in an era of destruction, where destruction is predominant. People die for systems that are masks for personal power and gain. Against them, I create a small but loving world to fight the disease and madness of the world. I can't see anything bad about anxiety, as it's not a flaw. Luise, we all have a demon in us, but I believe it can be defeated, tamed, sublimated, and used for creation. If I knew what to do politically, I would act. But since I'm helpless in that regard, I create a space where people can breathe, restore their faith and strength to live. When the self is troubled, it demands attention, just like a fever. In love, nobody wins. Some people seem like paper cut-outs, one-dimensional and voiceless, because they have a blank look and their eyes convey nothing. What I can't overcome is my conviction that all we have must be shared, given, from physical to spiritual possessions, knowledge, discoveries, intellectual acquisitions, techniques, and secrets. The changes we make within ourselves will in turn affect others. Anxiety, doubt, and fear are contagious, but so are tranquility and peace. We only think of the contagiousness of illness, but there is also the contagion of serenity and joy. Martha Jaeger's face is full of compassion, and her eyes are clear. She knits while I talk and receives me at the door playfully. She shows hesitations and doesn't pretend to know everything. I study my three gods of the deep: Dostoevsky, Lawrence, and Proust. As human beings, we are rapidly losing our capacity for real feeling and becoming cold and insensate. In a corner, there sat a Negro who seemed carved of wood, with definite features, stiff grey hair, and a lean, rigid figure. A book is judged mainly by a person's need, and what people respond to is either a reflection of themselves, a multiple mirror, or an elucidation of their time, a concern with their problems, fears, or a familiar atmosphere. His skin is the color of coffee with much milk and a touch of gold, his mouth is full and soft, and his hair is dark and softly waved. She tried to dress me like a lady and formalize my hair, but I let her, knowing I would soon return to my Bohemian freedom. In a Chinese shop, I bought a Japanese paper parasol for my hair, which was delicately made but tore. I repaired it with tape. My wanderlust has quieted down, and the near has become marvelous. My vision, which was once focused only on the distant, now focuses on the immediate. I sometimes feel as if I'm living in a Kafka nightmare of closed faces, silence, and inexpressiveness. People don't reveal themselves and seem absent. I miss the warmth and flowering that create bridges. When the artist is forced to enter the immediate present, he loses his unique perspective that connects the past, present, and future. To say that the artist is not serving humanity is monstrous, as he has been the eyes, ears, and voice of humanity. There are all the preparations for birth, for the poem, for the novel, but they are announced and never take form. You will be told that what I write is confused and without order, but I will tell you that my book is concerned with the problems of this world, with the problem of life itself. From now on, you must be more than one, many people, as many as you can think of. Everything negative should die, such as jealousy as the negative form of love and fear as the negative form of life. I write every day, about the Rue Dolent, Pedrito, the clubfooted shoemaker, and the atmosphere of Paris life. I don't know yet where these writings will lead me. The studio is A-shaped and flooded with light. Next to my bed, there is a bookcase filled with books on one side and a table I bought in an antique shop on the other. It's painted with scenes from Spanish history and has a top like a tray with wrought iron handles and two lanterns at each end. What's happening in the world is monstrous. Just as people are learning to use gas masks, I feel I have to wear a mask of oxygen-giving dreams and work to keep alive the cells of creation as a defense against devastation. If people knew more about psychology, they would have recognized Hitler as a psychotic killer. Nations are neurotic, and leaders can be psychotic. Gonzalo has not been caught in the great machine of political ideologies that sacrifices individual lives for theories that pass, crumble, change, and are corrupt at the core. Against hatred, power, fanaticism, systems, and plans, I oppose love and creation, over and over again, in spite of the insanity of the world. At Dorothy Norman's formal dinners, I meet many important people, but the conversation is always an ideological argument. People don't give of themselves and it's all impersonal and social. But for Gonzalo, the solution to all problems lies outside, while I go to the other extreme and blame myself for everything, never considering myself a victim of anything but my own weaknesses. Dreams, mysteries, myths, and symbols are as necessary as bread. Face this suffering, for all real suffering can save us from unreality. Real pain is human and deepening. Without real pain, you will remain a child forever. We are all seeking to live in the present and find our life in the present. We have forbidden each other to talk about the past or live in the past. I love the full expressiveness and the giving to others of what most of us cannot manifest. I begin to look at everything that happens as a fascinating drama, a tale happening to someone else. In the face of death, one always asks oneself: Did I see enough, hear enough, observe enough, love enough, did I listen attentively, did I appreciate, did I sustain the life?

It is truly a challenging task to rate someone's diaries.

However, this particular one left an indelible mark and was highly impressionable and memorable.

The entries within seemed to unfold like a captivating story, drawing the reader in and making them feel as if they were a part of the writer's experiences.

The emotions expressed were raw and genuine, evoking a range of feelings within the reader.

Whether it was the joyous moments, the heartaches, or the mundane details of daily life, everything was presented in a way that made it impossible to forget.

This diary was not just a collection of words on paper; it was a window into the soul of the writer, a testament to their journey through life.

It will surely stay with the reader for a long time, serving as a reminder of the power of the written word to touch hearts and create lasting memories.