This volume encompasses her friendship with Henry Miller and his wife June, her complicated relationship with her father, her interest in psychoanalysis and her struggle as an artist. She immensely talks about the self, and her search for the woman, Anais. She writes, “I have always been tormented by the image of multiplicity of selves. Some days I call it richness, and other days I see it as a disease, a proliferation as dangerous as cancer. My first concept about people around me was that all of them were coordinated into a WHOLE, whereas I was made up of a multitude of selves, of fragments.” I am mesmerized with her insights about the facets of woman penned with so much candor and passion.
Anais Nin is absolutely the writer I endeavor to become. She writes beautifully, elegantly and articulately. Even the most tedious thing that happen in her life comes alive because of her mastery with words. She is drunk with life. Whenever I read her diary, it gives me such a feverish delusion that I could write like her, too.
I could only wish I was less critical of my own writing to write freely and unbound as she did. This is a deeply powerful read–I recommend it to all women readers.
Wait. How does one even review a diary? I am doing her no justice.
PS: The fact that this is an expurgated diary eluded me. I feel really daft. HAHA