Fire: From "A Journal of Love" The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937

Fire: From "A Journal of Love" The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937

Anaïs Nin

Language: English

Pages: 448

ISBN: 0156003902

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

In this “erotically charged”(Publishers Weekly) diary that picks up where Incest left off, Nin chronicles a restless search for fulfillment that leads her to New York City-”that brilliant giant toy” -then back to Paris and Henry, and eventually into the arms of a passionate new lover.

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ever, I felt nothing. I feel nothing with Henry—nothing. I hate Hugh's caresses more desperately. I only feel Gonzalo. Now it happens that talking with Eduardo I have made several discoveries about sex: Some men have what corresponds to frigidity in women. They have an erection, they even come off, but they don't feel satisfied. Unsatisfied women or men, all behave alike: I before I met Henry, June, Louise, Gonzalo. Tenseness. Search for other sensations. Fever. Nervousness. Sleeplessness. Much

great struggles. Marvelous to feel not one cell in one asleep, all of one's self burning. I feel my intelligence dancing. Gonzalo talks sometimes as if I were the one moving all the strings of our destinies. Because I see, sense, so far? Or because I like to play God, or because to create my own life, an active life, I stir so much blood around me? I deny all calculation, all Machiavellian premeditation. But I have this strange pride and feeling that, yes, I have made all this. I have conquered

pour la Défense de la République Espagnole. The big room is lit by one lamp. The men arrive—Mexicans with long black hair, gold rings, colored shirts; Chileans, Nicaraguans, pasty Cubans, poets, medical students, law students. They like the place. It is romantic, frightening. Too frightening. It terrorizes those who have not got their papers in order. The policeman always on guard at the top of the stairs which lead to the quay frightens [Pablo] Neruda, the inert and sickly poet. He runs back to

so hungry, so devouring. I must annihilate it, and so I bow, I bow. Is that necessary? November 8, 1935 I AM FAR FROM THE DAYS WHEN I LEFT CLICHY because I was worn out or sick from bad food at irregular hours. Now I leave to save my happiness, to save the beauty. I wonder when—just before it becomes drab, or when I feel myself choking, or impatient? Tonight I didn't want to leave Henry, because he was in a soft, passionate mood. But I had to then, out of gratitude toward Hugh, who saved me

reads to me out of Virgin Spain his description of the Catalan woman because he says it fits me. We drink port. His room is simple, orderly. There is a sense of wonder in his eyes. And so, he can detect that I know neither death nor finished things, that nothing is finished, that my discontent is a creative resdessness and not a grouch, a curiosity, an expectation of still new miracles. He gives me a feeling of youth, of wholeness, sweetness. He seems taken quite out of himself, as if I were the

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