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    A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal--Volumes 1-8
    A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal--Volumes 1-8
    A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal--Volumes 1-8
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    A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal--Volumes 1-8

    By Anaïs Nin

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    A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal is the only current publication dedicated to the life and work of diarist/novelist Anais Nin and her circle, including Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, and several leading artists of the 20th century. This complete set contains all 8 annual issues, from 2003 to the present, with excerpts from Nin's unpublished diary, letters to/from her father, with whom she had an adult onset incestuous relationship, her two husbands, and her colleagues; also included are works by noted authors such as Janet Fitch, essays and criticism by the world's leading scholars, poetry, visual arts, reviews, updates, and internet resources. Edited by Paul Herron and published by Sky Blue Press, with an interactive table of contents.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSky Blue Press LLC
    Release dateSep 30, 2011
    ISBN9781452468532
    A Cafe in Space: The Anais Nin Literary Journal--Volumes 1-8
    Author

    Anaïs Nin

    ANAÏS NIN (1903-1977) was born in Paris and aspired at an early age to be a writer. An influential artist and thinker, she was the author of several novels, short stories, critical studies, a collection of essays, nine published volumes of her Diary, and two volumes of erotica, Delta of Venus and Little Birds. 

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    A Cafe in Space - Anaïs Nin

    Master Table of Contents

    Volume 1, 2003

    Volume 2, 2004

    Volume 3, 2005

    Volume 4, 2007

    Volume 5, 2008

    Volume 6, 2009

    Volume 7, 2010

    Volume 8, 2011

    Table of Contents, Volume 1 (2003)

    Editor’s Note

    Acknowledgments

    Aeryn Seto: True to Character

    Janet Fitch: No Women Writers—My introduction to Anaïs Nin

    Lynette Felber: A Heated Correspondence—Anaïs Nin and Rebecca West on writers’ community

    Kazuko Sugisaki: Translating Anaïs Nin’s Incest into Japanese

    Daisy Aldan: Flight

    Paul Herron: An Afternoon with Joaquín Nin-Culmell

    Benjamin Joplin: A Problem to be Solved—Deleuzian becoming and Anaïs Nin’s dream of what ought to be

    Karin Finell: Anaïs Remembered

    Thomas March: Keeping the Diary—The art of reflection in a solipsistic age

    Anaïs Nin: Mirage—from the unpublished diary, 1940

    Toyoko Yamamoto: Examining Anaïs Nin no Shôjo Jidai

    Claudine Brelet: Villa Seurat and Parc Montsouris

    Diane Allerdyce: Photograph—For Sharon Spencer

    Yuko Yaguchi: Twittering Machine of Paradise—Glimpses of two of Anaïs Nin’s Japanese daughters

    Philip K. Jason: Adventures in the Nin Trade

    Benjamin Franklin V: Passing the Torch—The need for bibliographical updating of Anaïs Nin’s work

    Shyamal Bagchee: thinking homes

    Dudley Levenson: Appreciating Gunther Stuhlmann

    Travels and excursions: Revisiting Anaïs Nin’s France—Neuilly-sur-Seine and Louveciennes

    Reviews and items of interest: Reviews of Anaïs Nin’s Narratives, Seduction: A Portrait of Anaïs Nin, a look at Literary Liaisons, and more

    Notes on Contributors

    [MasterTOC]

    Editor’s Note

    When Richard Centing and Benjamin Franklin V issued Under the Sign of Pisces, the first Nin-based periodical, Anaïs Nin responded:

    I call it the Café in Space. I hope it makes a link between all of us who have common interests.

    It is so difficult to sustain links between us because of great geographical distances. We do not have time to write long letters. But many friendships have formed around my work, many connections. (Diary 7 127-128)

    With this inaugural issue of A Café in Space: The Anaïs Nin Literary Journal, we hope to continue the idea of making a link between all of us, to continue the good work begun by Under the Sign of Pisces and furthered by the superb ANAIS: An International Journal.

    This year we celebrate Anaïs Nin’s birth one hundred years ago. The centennial gives us all an opportunity to reflect on the life Anaïs Nin created for herself and the extraordinary document that goes along with it, her Diary.

    It was Gunther Stuhlmann’s plan to release a special centennial issue of ANAIS: An International Journal this year, but his illness did not allow him to see it through. A Café in Space is thus inspired by and is meant to be a tribute to both Anaïs Nin and Gunther Stuhlmann. Some of the articles in this issue were originally intended for ANAIS, and we are happy to be able to include them here for our readers.

    During the past few years, the Nin community has lost some very important members. Gunther, the standard-bearer of Anaïs Nin’s work for nearly fifty years, passed away April 1, 2002. His leadership, vast knowledge, and wisdom will be missed sorely, beyond what simple words can convey. Sharon Spencer died exactly one week later. Not only did Sharon share friendship with Anaïs, she also devoted much of her academic career promoting her work, especially with her book Collage of Dreams. Daisy Aldan, with whom Anaïs Nin shared the trials of being a woman artist self-publishing in America, passed away in February of 2001. Daisy’s artistic genius and inspirational spirit made her a very special and much loved person, and her work as both poet and translator is legendary. Evelyn Hinz, whose Mirror and the Garden is considered by many to be one of the most insightful books written on Nin’s work, died in December 2002, after a long and distinguished career at the University of Manitoba. While we celebrate the centennial, may we also remember the lives and contributions of these brilliant individuals.

    The circle still widens, however, and a new breed of Nin readers and scholars is emerging. They remind us that there is really only one way to understand and appreciate Anaïs Nin, and that is to read her work. Within the pages of this journal, we shall be able to share what we learn from it.

    A Café in Space is an annual publication, due out each summer, and we welcome submissions of articles or proposals having to do with Anaïs Nin and her circle. See the next page for more details.

    Our associated web site, which can be found by going to www.skybluepress.com, is designed to enhance the information found in the journal. Each article, whenever appropriate, will have links associated with the topic, more detailed material or photographs, and ways to give feedback, ask questions, help facilitate research. It is our sincere hope that with the journal and web site, we will be able to form a café in which Nin scholars, readers, and those with parallel interests will gather. Nin study is hampered by a lack of communication between those of us who engage in it, and this is a way to address the problem. We encourage you to spread the word so that we can build a strong central base of Nin scholarship and readership.

    In this issue, we have included a special selection of work from Japan. The contributions of Kazuko Sugisaki, Yuko Yaguchi, and Toyoko Yamamoto represent the degree to which Japanese interest in Anaïs Nin has risen. There has been a surge of activity in Japan, the latest being Kazuko Sugisaki’s translation of Incest. There are several books dealing with Nin that have recently been published, and some of them are examined here.

    On April 12, 2003, a conference entitled Anaïs Nin: A Writer, A Life was held in Santa Barbara, California. The contributions by Janet Fitch and Aeryn Seto are taken from the transcripts of their talks. Other speakers included Kazuko Sugisaki, whose article is based on her talk, Tristine Rainer, Karin Finell, and Paul Herron.

    Daisy Aldan’s Flight is taken from her last poetry book, Collected Poems of Daisy Aldan, Sky Blue Press, 2002.

    Shymal Bagchee’s thinking homes is from his forthcoming poetry collection, Gabardine and Other Poems.

    Dudley Levenson’s Appreciating Gunther Stuhlmann originally appeared in The Artful Mind.

    Kazuko Sugisaki’s "Translating Anaïs Nin’s Incest into Japanese" appears in an abridged version for the ebook edition.

    [TOC][MasterTOC]

    Acknowledgments

    The Editor would like to thank the following for their assistance in the realization of this issue:

    Rupert Pole and the Anaïs Nin Trust for permissions to use quotations from Anaïs Nin’s work, and for photographic material.

    Barbara Stuhlmann for her encouragement and guidance.

    Sara Herron, without whom none of this would be possible.

    Jacques Laÿ and Anne-Marie Thomas for organizing the visit in Louveciennes.

    Jean-Hugues Anglade for the tour of 2 bis rue de Montbuisson.

    Joaquín Nin-Culmell for his hospitality and insight.

    Denise Brown for her support.

    The University Press of Florida, Edgework Books, and Northern Illinois University Press for providing review copies.

    Roger Jackson for sowing ideas and for his continual support.

    Claudine Brelet, Thomas March, Suzanne Zuccaro, Noel Riley Fitch, Karl Orend.

    A Café in Space: the Anaïs Nin Literary Journal is published annually by Sky Blue Press and edited by Paul Herron.

    Copyright © 2003, 2011 by Sky Blue Press. All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, translated, or transmitted in any form, by any means whatsoever, without prior written permission from Sky Blue Press.

    Submissions or proposals should be directed to the above address. Material may also be submitted by attaching a Word document to an e-mail message sent to [email protected]. Please identify the contents in the subject line or it will not be opened.

    ISBN: 0-9652364-8-X

    Sky Blue Press

    [TOC][MasterTOC]

    Aeryn Seto

    True to Character

    A letter to girls who write diaries

    Like you, I was fourteen years old.

    The lesbian in second period said:

    "Henry and June. You’ve never read it?"

    On the cover a man, a woman, a Parisian bridge, dawn,

    He knelt before her. Her leg slung over his shoulder.

    Be ready to quit every country

    To exhaust every thing you come to possess

    Except this:

    She writes, I am in bliss. This is the life, the talk, these are the emotions which belong to me. I breathe freely now. I am at home. I am myself (88).

    It was everything I wanted out of life,

    You are free to make it yours

    Unexpurgated? I breathed.

    You can borrow it.

    I saw the stories I would make my own.

    She writes, "I want to bite into life, and to be torn by it" (179).

    I used to leave notebooks barely touched. Her diary

    Gave me mouth and hands to narrate

    And what I created was passion.

    There was to be no word about the mundane: skinniness, braces,

    No, you too will write maps of your desire for love, your desire for life.

    Put down every voluptuous thing you believe before your senses

    are corrupted by experience.

    As a virgin you know everything.

    I believed I knew what to do with a man: Anaïs taught me

    in Henry’s bedroom at Clichy. I knew how to make a man love me,

    seeing how she stole their imaginations,

    falling in love with the woman they saw,

    Learned how to enslave him as I saw her coy before her analyst

    and suddenly fussy before her husband; how to resist him

    as I saw her inch away from her cousin Eduardo

    in a café in Montparnasse, fixing him from under downcast lashes.

    You’ll use all this. To travel, to love;

    above all, to have something to write about.

    She writes, "To make life more interesting. To imitate literature, which is a hoax" (206).

    Two things happen when you fall in love.

    You will become yourself. And your diary will get good.

    Of course it was bound to happen this way,

    the way I had seen in it in another woman’s journal.

    Later you must do another thing you’ve read about: leave.

    She writes, "What he does not know is that I must complete the unfulfilled portions of my life, that I must have what I have missed so far, to complete myself and my own story" (159).

    Your heroine will find a better setting elsewhere.

    Here’s your curse, and if he comes to find you,

    he’ll weep saying you’re no longer his, that he can feel it.

    Believe in love. You’ll forget

    how love is born: as your self is born, as a story is born.

    Just like in the diary.

    They will only wish to be near you as they know you,

    you at your best, you being loved by them. You as you must exist in your story.

    Do you think you can be naked? Be ready

    To have your heart broken first.

    She writes, "I affect their imaginations. It is the strongest power" (54).

    If love is what you want, be ready to quit every country

    You’ll exhaust every thing you come to possess

    Perhaps someday you, too, will lie down the journal and want to die

    Summon your last strength to make a new story.

    She writes, "…Nothing too long imagined can be perfect in a worldly way" (24).

    It’s against your instinct, I know,

    But this is inevitable:

    You will betray people

    As long as you are true to the character you’ve created,

    To the woman you wrote out in these pages.

    She writes, "I would deceive the greatest and finest man on earth" (229).

    Don’t answer a man who asks

    how many men you’ve loved. Only say: I’ve never betrayed.

    Let every terrible kiss vanish

    Out of allegiance to the story you are telling.

    She writes, "The journal is a product of my disease, perhaps an accentuation and exaggeration of it. I speak of relief when I write; perhaps, but it is also an engraving of pain, a tattooing of myself" (207).

    Fill notebooks, roam

    love to love and country to country,

    packing the lines with stories.

    Though you will be accused by men

    more than once of being inconsistent, of being faithless,

    you must never doubt your loyalty to one thing:

    that journal, and what it means to you

    will be the love of the character you are becoming.

    She writes, "Last night I wept. I wept because the process by which I have become a woman was painful. I wept because I was no longer a child with a child’s blind faith… I wept because I could not believe anymore and I love to believe. I can still love passionately without believing… I wept because I have lost my pain and am not yet accustomed to its absence" (274).

    Maybe you’re wondering about your fate: you’ll find

    your destruction where your sustenance came from.

    I adjure you: when joy was taken from me

    I, gripping paper and pen to set it all down

    I had no hands to fight with.

    She writes, "My instincts lead me to love over and over again" (238).

    Over and over you’ll build and abandon

    The love you are looking for.

    It won’t wave with the strung banners

    Of laundry in the alleys of Naples,

    Take the stairs from Montmartre.

    It won’t stretch nude, after all, on an Andalucian bed

    While the cicadas hum in the heat

    It knows nothing of Amsterdam and rain.

    It will already have been there

    Cramping inside you, regardless of the scenery. It didn’t need to be written

    On that train, flying past some high village

    Or singing songs with strangers on the platform.

    The seed was there to begin with.

    You wrote the map before you set off.

    When you come to the bridge at the riverbank

    You’ll find yourself alone. I suggest

    You bring a notebook.

    All quotations taken from: Nin, Anaïs. Henry and June: From A Journal of Love. The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin 1931-1932. New York: Harcourt Brace and Company, 1989.

    [TOC][MasterTOC]

    Janet Fitch

    No Women Writers

    My introduction to Anaïs Nin

    I would like to discuss the effect Anaïs Nin had on me personally, and on a generation of women writers and artists, how she affected and inspired us.

    I met Anaïs Nin in 1969. Not in the flesh, but on the page, the way most of us encountered her. I was in junior high, fourteen years old. One day, our English teacher was out, and we got a substitute teacher instead, a man who maintained that there were no important women writers. He challenged our class to think of a single one.

    I can still remember the frustration I felt that day—I knew there had to be some, but it was a tribute to the educational system I grew up in that I could not think of a single one. At the time, I had not heard of Virginia Woolf, nor Edith Wharton, not Colette or George Sand, not even Willa Cather. I had read the Brontës, but they didn’t occur to me at that frustrating and humiliating moment—of which there had been so many in early life, so many women can’t or women don’t... I just wanted to cry, because I was so inadequate, and knew so little, and was so unable to defend my sex.

    And then a girl in the front row raised her hand, I can still see her, her frizzy ash-blonde hair, her plump arm, waving, and she asked, What about Anaïs Nin?

    Thank god for this girl. I still remember her name, Abby Froelich. The teacher didn’t know what to say, so in true adult style, he changed the subject. And I ripped off a note which I passed up the row... WHO IS ANAÏS NIN? Abby corrected the spelling and sent it back, saying, Read the Diaries, they’re incredible!

    So I had my mom take me out to the bookstore, and buy me the Diaries of Anaïs Nin. They came as a boxed set of four, 1931 to 1947. And on the box, there was this extraordinary face. Not young, not old, made up almost like a mime, very theatrical and otherworldly, but sophisticated too, the face of someone I had never met before, a woman who seemed both dreamy and hugely compassionate, as if she had heard what had gone on in the classroom that day.

    So in 1969, I met Anaïs Nin for the first time.

    I remember the very first entry of the diary...she was talking about her house outside of Paris, in a town called Louveciennes. It was very old and run down and very, very romantic. She described the façade of the house, which had eleven windows, and one that was just a set of closed shutters, which had been placed there for symmetry. In the diary she wrote, I often dream about the room which does not exist beyond the closed shutter.

    I was captivated by the mind that could think a thought like that. I was always being told to come down out of the clouds and be practical. The women I knew were all practical, they didn’t linger in their dreams, but here was permission to value the secret inner life—which of course is what a room that doesn’t exist, behind a closed shutter really is.

    It’s a very private room, that room that doesn’t exist—a room in a dream, like a door you see in a dream in a house you know very well, which psychologically is your mundane everyday conscious existence. But then there’s a door, and you go through the door into a room you never knew was there, this is the unknown in your own psyche.

    And somehow the door was like this diary. And this fantastic figure, this Anaïs Nin, was there opening the door, suggesting that the life of the dream, the vivid life of the interior, was a beautiful, meaningful life, so naturally I embraced it as I would embrace my own secret room that didn’t exist in my own growing awareness.

    The next thing I encountered in the diary was her description of her house, that she had painted each room a different color, one room for each mood: lacquer red for vehemence, pale turquoise for reveries, peach color for gentleness, green for repose, gray for work at the typewriter.

    The way she had painted her house was like pulling that dream life into the outside world—which of course is also what the writer and the artist does. But at that time she was only developing as a writer, as an artist. Her house was in a way a laboratory for what she was doing inside herself. It was creating an environment to support the inner life. Now one of my favorite stories was the Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe, where you go through the rooms, each a different color, to arrive at the last room, which of course (being Poe) was black with red windows. But this was a real woman, doing it for a real purpose, to support her inner life and to make it visible to herself.

    Just to be that important to yourself was a revelation. The women I grew up with were all about sacrificing and repressing their needs and desires to the demands of everyday life, a life I did not want to grow up and embody. I didn’t feel good about growing up to be a woman. It seemed like a life of repression of desire and personality, of self-effacement, of serving others, of being told what you can’t do, because you’re a woman. The books I read were about men; women only existed as the mysterious Other. But here was a woman who took herself as the subject of her own life, woman as subject, rather than object. Woman looking, woman thinking—about men, about love, about fear, and creation.

    There was a strange disconnect in those days, when all I read about was someone other than myself. I could read Hemingway, but I couldn’t be Hemingway. I read Melville, but who was I in Moby Dick? The inner life of his fiction had nothing to do with my own inner life. It was like being black and only reading white authors. You could appreciate the story, but there was always that depressing knowledge that the only place for you in the story was polishing shoes, or saying yessir in the Pullman car, a supporting player. As a woman in that male fiction, the only place for me was ironing a shirt, or cooking him dinner, or being the mysterious Other, the object of love.

    But in Nin’s diaries, I could imagine myself the subject. She was the arbiter, the narrator; it was her taste, her observations, her struggle—that was the centerpiece. Nin allowed the possibility of a direct creative life for a woman, not to be just the muse, but to be the creator.

    And what a life. In the same entry, she declared, ordinary life doesn’t interest me. I seek only the high moments, I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.

    Now as a fourteen-year-old, I knew I’d found a guide and a model. It was a time when everybody else was telling me to conform, be a good girl, get your head out of the clouds, who do you think you are? And here was someone who whispered inside my head, take a chance, don’t be a good girl, stick your head in the clouds, you are someone worth knowing. You could demand the heights, if you were willing to take the chance.

    So I plunged into a fascinating life—Nin’s development as a writer, the creative friendships she made with other artists and writers like Henry Miller and Lawrence Durrell, Luise Rainer, Antonin Artaud, people who supported her in the life she wanted to have, giving me a clue as to how this could be done. And of course, the amazing erotic mind: she was neither good girl nor bad girl but startlingly both. And this was long before the unexpurgated diaries began to emerge, Henry and June, and the one about her father. It was a life worth living.

    The Diaries led me to the fiction, a kind of writing I had never seen before: House of Incest, Under a Glass Bell, novellas in Winter of Artifice, and the beautiful interlinked novels that together are the Cities of the Interior, with names such as Ladders to Fire, Spy in the House of Love, and Seduction of the Minotaur—revealing a subterranean world of the watery or fiery emotions, the internal terrain of the female psyche.

    The fiction was, in certain ways even more so than the diaries, a laboratory of the psyche. They are like dreams in which everyone in the dream is yourself, in one aspect or another. All these women were parts of Nin, and I recognized pieces of myself in all of them. The stories were seductive and fantastic, psychologically acute and glittered with their own intense inner life.

    I think what attracted me most about Anaïs Nin was that her women were always struggling to break through into an authentic life, with their sexuality and their courage and their joy intact.

    And clearly, at fourteen, and fifteen, and sixteen, that’s what I wanted for myself, to become a woman intact that way. Funny, they used to use the word intact to mean virginal—so intact didn’t mean authenticity, but this sort of sealed blankness, like a piece of paper kept clean so that a man could eventually write himself on it. But intact for me meant with all the portions of myself continuing to belong to myself. Alive in all the parts, in the imagination, in the erotic self, in relationships, your life for your own use and benefit. At the time, that’s what Anaïs Nin meant to me.

    Flash forward a few years. Now I was in college. After changing my major a few times, I settled on history, not only as a degree but as a profession. The historian uses a lot of the elements of fiction writing—the characters, the drama, the sweep of events. But you didn’t have to expose your own vulnerabilities. You could footnote everything.

    My studies led me to England, for a Junior year abroad. It was the first time in four years (it was a second Junior year) of being away from my college, which was very intense and tended to focus you very intently on your academic future. Being away was a bit like waking up from an intense, vivid dream.

    I turned twenty-one that year. And the night before my twenty-first birthday, I woke up at about three in the morning, dead upright, and realized I wanted to be a writer. I didn’t want the academic life, I wanted to LIVE in the most profound sense of the word. I wanted to experience life, that life that Anaïs Nin had written about all those years ago. In fact, when I pictured myself as a writer, that’s exactly what I had in mind. Not Emily Dickenson, or Charlotte Brontë, or Sylvia Plath. For me, being a writer meant freedom and self-discovery, and a life lived in high key. It was the picture of that slight, otherworldly woman in her cape and eyelashes. That was a future I could look forward to.

    When I decided I wanted to be a writer like Anaïs Nin, I had not written a story yet. I had an unpleasant experience the first time I tried, when I was nine, at the hands of another teacher—I didn’t have much luck in my early education—so for me, as it was for Anaïs Nin, the declaration came first, the intention, and then the work followed.

    There has been some controversy about Anaïs Nin since the days I read those diaries—artists fall into fashion and out again. Everyone likes to find the hero’s clay feet—it’s our uneasiness about having heroes. But I’m older now too; I’ve found sides of my own character which I don’t like very much, either. I don’t need my heroes to be flawless; in fact, I expect them to be riddled with flaws and contradictions—who doesn’t have them?

    But I’ve never lost my affection for the writer who was my first inspiration. Anaïs Nin didn’t become a writer in a time when women regularly went their own way. She had to clear her own path, become a new kind of writer, a new kind of woman, and as a writer who started in the 1930s, she had to wait quite some time for an audience, for people to catch up to her. Luckily she saw that before she died. Some writers don’t get that lucky.

    And what about Nin today?

    I think that nowadays women are not quite as focused on their perceptions as women. The results of those battles are everywhere, so profound and deep that it’s fallen out of consciousness. My daughter cannot believe that when I was her age, I couldn’t take print shop, or wear pants to school, that there were no female jockeys, cops, soldiers, airline pilots, mail carriers, firefighters, bus drivers, news anchors, politicians and damn few writers. And that it was routine for men to make statements about women, what we could or could not do, and it wasn’t bizarre for a substitute teacher to stand in front of a class and say there are no women writers. Anaïs Nin was part of that change. She understood when she was complimented that she thought like a man, it wasn’t a compliment—it was saying that a woman who thinks like a woman doesn’t think at all. She demonstrated to a generation that a woman who thinks like a woman thinks a great deal, and things that hadn’t been seen on the page before.

    She taught a generation of writers that a woman’s writing doesn’t have to resemble that of a man to be serious, that serious writing comes out of those who take themselves seriously, that their ideas and their creative lives, even their erotic lives, can be seen from the point of view of subject, and not object.

    I’ve done my little Anaïs Nin pilgrimages—I have a picture of the house where she grew up in New York, a three-story brownstone in the west 70s, in my office. I’ve been to the Gotham Book Mart, where the books she printed on her own press were sold.

    And every day for the last fifteen years, I walk my dog in the hills in Silver Lake, where I live, and often pass a Japanese style mailbox at the crest of the hill, which I’ve known is the house where Anaïs Nin lived with Rupert Pole in the last years of her life. It’s the house in the film, Anaïs Observed. All you can see from the street is a long driveway going back into the trees. But it was a little tiny shrine, that mailbox, and I never went up that hill without stopping just to contemplate—this is where Anaïs Nin lived.

    When I published my novel White Oleander, in which I think an Anaïs Nin lover can see the influence, I told the story to a radio interviewer who offered to put me in touch with Rupert Pole, Anaïs’s second husband, who still lived in the house, and see if I could get to meet him and see the place.

    And so one day, some thirty years after my first encounter with Nin on the page, I found myself walking down that driveway, and being let in by Rupert, a lovely man I recognized from photographs, who gave me a tour of the house.

    It was smaller than I thought it would be, and made of very humble materials, concrete block and plywood and glass, but elegant in its simple, almost Japanese style, with the big view over the Silver Lake reservoir. There in the living room was the bed they had slept in, and he took me back to see her writing room, a simple, glass walled room that looked out into the shady front garden. Here was her typewriter, here was her room. And I had a thought that I sometimes do have, about living too late, not way too late, but just late enough to have missed whatever happened in the room just before I arrived. I could see Anaïs Nin walking through that room, elegant in a long skirt and a white shirt. It was a house set up for lovers, the bed right in the living room, though I think it could be partitioned off in a pinch, but very unconventional. It was small, and modern and casual—it made the other houses seem over-appointed, Victorian by comparison.

    The charm of that day, sitting with Rupert, talking about Anaïs and their great love, the way she kept her journals, her relationships with her students, their circle of friends, will always stay with me like the closing of a circuit.

    I always regretted having missed Anaïs Nin—she spoke at the commencement at my college shortly before I started; I was a high school student in Los Angeles at a time when she was very accessible to young people—but I suppose the challenge now is to renew the inspiration she embodied. Even thinking about her for this speech has rekindled my admiration, and I hope will inspire us all again to seek the high moments and continue searching for the miraculous.

    [TOC][MasterTOC]

    Lynette Felber

    A Heated Correspondence

    Anaïs Nin and Rebecca West on writers’ community

    The publication of the first volume of Anaïs Nin’s Diary in 1966 was long-anticipated—the Diary itself was legendary and so were its insider portraits of celebrated writers and bohemian avant-garde artists. The legal quagmire entailed in acquiring permission to publish the verbal portraits of Nin’s numerous acquaintances and friends, however, was one of several logistical problems that delayed its publication for over thirty years. Although many writers were happy to have their portraits published, Rebecca West refused her permission to be featured in the Diary. The heated correspondence that followed foregrounds issues of interest to writers in general. An exchange of their letters housed in West’s papers at the University of Tulsa highlights the two women’s contrasting perceptions of writers’ community. In their interchange, the two writers explore questions about what a writer owes fellow writers in terms of encouragement, promotion, and support, both personally and professionally. The writers reveal a variety of emotions elicited by this issue, including betrayal, anger, criticism, and disappointment over lack of support.

    Anaïs Nin and Rebecca West knew each other both professionally and personally. West first encountered Nin’s work when she reviewed D.H. Lawrence: An Unprofessional Study, published in 1932. The two writers finally met face-to-face during Nin’s visit to New York in 1935. Later that year, West visited France and the two were reacquainted in Rouen (where West’s son was at school). During this visit, West was a guest at Nin’s home in Louveciennes, and she and her husband dined in Paris with the now infamous but then unacknowledged love trio of Nin, Hugh Guiler, and Henry Miller.[1] Nin admired West’s rich breasts, her gypsy skin, her ardent eyes, her humor and irony (Fire 130). The women discovered that they had much in common besides their writing: both had charming, irresponsible fathers who had abandoned their families, a source of enduring trauma for each of them. Nin would probably not have differentiated between their personal and professional relationships; it is less certain that West would have blurred the boundaries of this distinction. However, Nin’s plans to publish an account of their private, social meetings contributed to West’s disenchantment with the friendship in the 1960s—subsequently leading her to ignore Nin’s work professionally.

    Nearly of the same generation—Nin was thirty-two and West forty-two when they met—the two women had markedly different careers. West got her start as a writer through her work as a young suffragette and a contributor to Doris Marsden’s feminist publication The Freewoman. By the age of twenty, West was already publishing book reviews and her career as a critic was successfully launched. By 1947, she was featured on the cover of Time magazine as the world’s number one woman writer, and she became a Dame of the British Empire in 1958. Nin, a part of a bohemian circle of writers and artists, had a slowly growing but loyal underground following of readers and fought for decades to be publicly recognized. West’s reputation was bankable, and many of her novels were Book-of-the-Month Club selections. Nin’s books were deemed uncommercial by publishers, and while Nin published her book on D.H. Lawrence in the 1930s, and a significant amount of fiction in the 1940s, she did not gain an international reputation among general readers until the late 1960s and early 1970s, with a meteoric rise to best-selling cult status after the publication of her diaries. These contrasting career trajectories—as well as two quite different personalities—contributed to their antithetical perceptions of a writer’s duty to her fellow writers and to a community of writers. Nin’s concept of the writers’ community was facilitative and nurturing; West’s was challenging and adversarial.

    Nin depicts her early relationships with writers as a network of support: she wrote of Lawrence Durrell and Miller that [w]e thought simply of enriching each other or giving the other the sustenance he needed, but we also felt that we were giving to each other. There was no idea of competition (Woman 95). This account, written years after the fact, may be somewhat idealized, however. At the time of her affair with Miller, for example, Nin was gratified when West praised her writing at the expense of her lover’s: "Rebecca definitely does not like Henry’s writing. Thinks my preface to Tropic of Cancer a beautifully alive thing which bears no relation to the book. ‘He has no vision,’ she says" (Fire 131). Although a tinge of competition may stain all professional relationships, Nin’s dealings with other writers were generally supportive rather than critical. Her long struggle for recognition convinced her that writers’ camaraderie and solidarity were essential. When she finally achieved fame, Nin encouraged young writers who sought her support. After an early and disappointing attempted correspondence with Djuna Barnes in the 1930s, Nin had resolved to act differently: "Djuna Barnes could have answered my letter, as I am answering my mail today. And that is why I’m doing it. Because I thought it was unkind of her not to answer a beautiful letter about her work, about Nightwood " (Woman 101). Because she believed that craft would come in due time and was not necessarily taught (Woman 217), Nin supported other writers by reading and commenting favorably on their work rather than criticizing or editing. She also used her financial resources to serve as a patron to many writers, supplying rent money, a typewriter, a dinner—whatever would facilitate the writing process. She underwrote the publication of Tropic of Cancer for Miller in the 1930s (Stuhlmann xv), and when she and her friends found conventional publication difficult to achieve in the 1940s, Nin bought and operated a printing press in New York, producing hand-crafted, artistic books that are valuable collectors’ editions today.

    Throughout her career, Nin refused to differentiate between promotional writing on behalf of writers (of which she contributed her share) and professional reviews or criticism. Her unprofessional study of Lawrence was more of an appreciation than a critical analysis. She was often unhappy with scholars’ criticism, though she approved of Evelyn Hinz’s and Anna Balakian’s approaches to her work. Nin either did not understand or simply could not sympathize with the professional critic’s and reviewer’s goals of objective analysis and honest evaluation. West, on the other hand, was a professional reviewer from the start. Her love affair with H.G. Wells was initiated by a jeering, provocative review of his novel Marriage in 1912, in which she publicly dubbed her future lover an old maid among novelists (Marriage 64). In this seemingly belittling review, West spoke the adversarial language of professional criticism that Wells understood. The review precipitated a relationship that began in 1913 and continued for ten years. West viewed the book review as a form which challenges in the interest of truth. In a 1952 article, she wrote: A jog-trot review which questions facts is, if its questioning is on a proper basis, part of a scheme for stripping the earth of its wrapping of deceptive mists, which stripping can never be entirely successful but which should be made without cease lest those mists choke the human race (Art 168). Nin reacted ambivalently to West’s acerbic professional persona; she wrote: Her tongue is sharp, and she does not suffer from naïveté. At her age, will I be as sharp? Her descriptions of people are merciless (Fire 130). But Nin apparently saw a side of West that the critic did not often publicly reveal; Nin also wrote, She is hypersensitive to criticism (Fire 119), a statement that even better describes her own vulnerability.

    West was particularly vulnerable because of her troubled relationship with her son by H.G. Wells, Anthony West. She not only asked to have any reference to herself deleted from the Diary, but she also reacted emotionally to Nin’s alleged misinterpretation of West’s previous comments about her son. In a typewritten letter to Nin dated November 4, 1965, West says she will accept Nin’s offer to strike the section about her from the published diary.[2] For her part, Nin wanted to retain the portrait and responded by offering West the option of editing the passage herself: Take a red pencil… Can anything be kept? (Tulsa, Nov. 13, 1965). She also wrote to ask West’s opinion of the Diary, and when she did not receive a prompt answer (apparently because some correspondence was lost in the mail), Nin wrote West an angry letter communicating her sense of betrayal:

    Dear Rebecca:

    It was out of faith in our friendship that I wrote to you about the diary and offered to take out anything which displeased you. It was out of consideration for our friendship that I took out every reference to you. I awaited a long letter you said you wrote to me which never came. I wrote you that I had left you out entirely from the diary. I counted on your [word crossed out, friendship?] love and understanding in the past. I also remembered you as objective and generous. But when I wrote to you later and asked you: was there nothing in the diary you could comment on, nothing to admire, nothing to respond to, nothing you could recognize as you did in the past, you did not answer me. I cannot believe you can so deeply admire [in?] cold blood, preface, comment on so many books, and be silent about the diary in a way which annihilates your understanding in the past. If this is true, then I am free again of the bonds of friendship and can write about you in the coming diaries. I can also write that you relied on my noblesse oblige to write nothing at all, and yet failed utterly in noblesse oblige to give to the diary even a friend’s response. I cannot believe this until you write me yourself. I cannot believe that what I may have written in my twenties, may have bothered you so much, that it turned you against me for good. If this is so I would like to know it. I have worked in the opposite direction: I have sought to find in the past the causes for breaks, alienations, so that I would not have to report in the diary anything bitter or distorted. There must be a reason for your attitude. It is not that of a friend. Before this new aspect of you represents the Rebecca West of today, I would like to give you an opportunity to break your silence of twenty years about my work. It is essential to me. For my loyalties do not change, but I know it is possible for others to change so utterly.

    I hope I will find again the Rebecca West I knew, outspoken, loving, and generous. (Tulsa, Nov. 23, 1966)

    Nin’s use of the phrase "noblesse oblige" seems idiosyncratic; clearly she uses the term to indicate an obligation of generous behavior—but an obligation grounded in friendship rather than that of social rank. A comment in The Novel of the Future further illuminates the personal meaning Nin attaches to this term: "People only unmask themselves in the privacy of love or friendship. But such revelations impose noblesse oblige. One has to treat them with care and tenderness. A human being who reveals himself should be treated with the same care we accord a new type of fish, a new type of plant. He is unique and we may never see another like him. We must protect him from injury if we are to share his life" (150). Self-revelation, Nin claims, creates a vulnerability that merits special protection. Nin obviously felt that West’s refusal to let her publish the portrait betrayed their friendship, the bond created by that process of mutual self-revelation and resultant vulnerability. Their prior reciprocal emotional exchange necessitated, in Nin’s view, not just an obligation to act generously with each other personally, but also as fellow writers, to read and comment on each other’s work.

    Another revealing usage in Nin’s letter is her application of the word objective to West’s prior behavior. Nin here seems to appeal to West’s role as a professional book reviewer: if she can comment in cold blood on books by strangers, cannot she comment on the work of a friend? Nin elucidates her views on the traditional dichotomy between objective and subjective expression in a lecture transcribed in A Woman Speaks. Again, the personal and emotional dimension of writing means more to Nin than any kind of objective evaluation of books: Because the source of our human life, the source of our personal happiness all the time depends on this personal world… The discovery I made from my own work was that while being accused of all these things in my twenties and in my thirties, of being subjective, of being only concerned with the personal world, I suddenly realized that when you went deeply enough into the personal you touched the sources of our human life and our humanity. Therefore, Nin goes on to explain, I don’t believe there is objective criticism… I did not write about Lawrence objectively (Woman 86-87).

    Book reviews, therefore, raised two sensitive issues for Nin: the personal obligation of one writer to another and the impossibility of objective criticism. She had no sympathy for either the antagonistic culture of the professional book review or the financial exigency of the commercial marketplace. In 1944, Nin observed that I have met […] with only one insuperable obstacle: the reviewers. They side with the commercial publishers. They will not review books by small presses unless these small presses…get themselves publicized (Anaïs Nin 494).

    Nin’s sense of betrayal may have been fostered by some very positive early experiences with book reviews and reviewers. Reviewers who were friends (e.g. Edmund Wilson, who was also her lover), or who had connections with publishers, aided the publication of her work. Gore Vidal, for example, fought for publication of Children of the Albatross at Dutton, though their relationship deteriorated after Gore published parodic depictions of Nin in his novels (Diary 4 191). Nin received encouragement from many reviewer-friends—Wilson and West herself wrote favorable reviews of her early works. In 1932, West included Nin’s D.H. Lawrence: An Unprofessional Study in her review of five books on Lawrence published in the London Daily Telegraph. West wrote that Lawrence has been discussed more brilliantly and profoundly than ever before in a book by a lady with the fascinating name of Anaïs Nin, in a volume, written in English, though published by Titus in Paris… People who say that they cannot understand what Lawrence was after will find this last a very pleasant way of finding out (Hero-Worship 6).[3] West genuinely admired Nin’s work, but this statement also embodies the kind of un-analytic promotion Nin herself wrote and understood. West’s review goes on to give much more extensive and critical treatment to a biography of Lawrence, The Savage Pilgrimage: A Narrative of D.H. Lawrence by Catherine Carswell; in comparison, her praise of Nin’s study is merely an aside. West also praised Nin’s Winter of Artifice some years later, and was quoted in print as saying I think the whole thing quite marvelous, particularly in its use of absolutely new material. You seem to me to have real and unmistakable genius (qtd. in Anaïs Nin, 493).

    In the 1966 letter to West, Nin expresses her dismay that West’s early professional support had diminished and had been followed by a twenty-year silence. Clearly, Nin was looking for more than just permission to publish her portrait of West; her letter shows her seeking some commentary on the Diary as Nin’s lifework. Deirdre Bair claims that West had not been willing to help Nin find a publisher for the diaries in England (214, 251, 564, n.5), and although Bair is an unsympathetic biographer whose depiction generally places Nin in the most unflattering light possible, her account in this case is supported by the veiled threat in Nin’s 1966 letter. Nin intimates that if West violates the bonds of friendship, Nin will be free to publish what she pleases about West in future volumes. This interpretation of her letter is confirmed by volume two of the Diary (1934-39), in which a brief but highly factual portrait of West appears. In this volume, Nin provides a narrative account of their past encounters, including visits and West’s prior positive review of Nin’s book on Lawrence. Although Nin did retaliate, in one sense, by publishing the portrait, it was carefully edited and there is nothing objectionable or negative in it. She did not mention West’s subsequent lack of cooperation (Diary 2 31-32), and a more detailed portrait of West was eventually published in the posthumous Fire, Nin’s unexpurgated journal from 1934-37 (118-119, 129-134).

    What West actually felt about the Diary as a literary work is unknown since she withheld any comment on the Diary itself. Her papers in the Tulsa collection also include a typed copy of Nin’s story Ragtime, which Nin probably sent for her comments, but which bears no annotations by West. In her correspondence with Gordon Ray, however, who consulted with West about a couples biography of her relationship with Wells, West made many bitter comments about Nin (Bair 563, n.32; 609, n.44; 654, n.5). For her part, Nin articulated ambivalence about West as early as 1936, when she wrote: I love Rebecca, but she is too sick, too neurotic, too difficult as a friend (Fire 213; also see 293). At the same time, West herself was less than candid (with Nin or with herself) about her own motivations. Her reluctance to let Nin publish her portrait was at least partially grounded in her obsessive efforts to keep her battle with her son out of print (Felber). She wrote Nin: I certainly misled you if I gave you to understand that my son resented being illegitimate and hated me—and I shouldn’t like him to think that I had told you this. Actually his attitude in those days was entirely different. He was proud and fond of his father, and certainly did not hate me. He was difficult, but the difficulty was quite of another kind, and much less ordered—much less definable (Tulsa, Nov. 4, 1965). Still, Nin never published the material to which West most objected, revealing her son’s hostility, in either the original or in the posthumous diaries. Evidently, Nin’s sense of "noblesse oblige" (passed down to her executors) governed her choice of material, though she felt a right to select from it because West had breached the bond of friendship.

    Nin’s subjective, facilitative view of the function of book reviewers and writers’ obligations to each other in contrast with West’s more objective, adversarial one also informs Nin’s and West’s different kinds of feminism and their reputations among feminists today. Nin was suspicious of feminists who try to be like men; she wrote disapprovingly of Rebecca West (and Virginia Woolf) that each write[s] like a man and I don’t like it (Notes; Bair 102). The exchange of letters in the Tulsa collection, as well as a comparison of Nin’s and West’s personal conduct in their relationship, suggests that what Nin meant when she accused West of writing like a man was, at least in part, West’s willingness to adopt the adversarial position of the professional reviewer. Nin, in contrast, assumed a nurturing style of feminism, perhaps more acceptable in the late 1960s than today. Ironically, the reputations of both women have suffered in the contemporary feminist and academic communities. Nin is often denigrated for arguing that women are different from men, and has been accused of essentialism, though her belief that society’s treatment of women needs to change shows that she did not believe that sex roles are truly essential, that is, unchangeable and inherent. Similarly, West is criticized because she became more conservative as she grew older and is credited, at most, with a paradoxical feminism that departed from her early radical suffrage feminism by endorsing women’s reliance upon the feminine mystique, including a more passive role in relation to men (Norton).

    Throughout their lives in the volatile first three-quarters of the twentieth century, Nin and West stepped boldly through a minefield of women’s shifting roles and evolving professional identities. Their rift in the 1960s reflects not only their personal biases about book reviews and the writer’s duty to fellow writers, but also foreshadows some of the differences that characterize contemporary debates in feminist communities today.

    Works Cited

    Anaïs Nin. Current Biography: Who’s News and Why. Ed. Anna Rothe. New York: H.W. Wilson, 1944.

    Bair, Deirdre. Anaïs Nin: A Biography. New York: Putnam, 1995.

    Felber, Lynette. "Unfinished Business: Rebecca West’s Aborted Novel, Mild Silver, Furious Gold." Journal of Modern Literature. Forthcoming.

    Fitch, Noel Riley. Anaïs: The Erotic Life of Anaïs Nin. Boston: Little, Brown, 1993.

    Nin, Anaïs. The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 2, 1934-1939. Ed. and preface Gunther Stuhlmann. New York: Harcourt, 1967.

    ----. The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4, 1944-1947. Ed. and introd. Gunther Stuhlmann. New York: Harcourt, 1967.

    ----. Fire: From A Journal of Love. The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937. Ed. Gunther Stuhlmann. New York: Harcourt, 1995.

    ----. Notes on Feminism. Massachusetts Review 13.1 & 2 (1972): 25-28.

    ----. The Novel of the Future. New York: Collier, 1968.

    ----. A Woman Speaks: The Lectures, Seminars, and Interviews of Anaïs Nin. Ed. and introd. Evelyn J. Hinz. Chicago: Swallow, 1975.

    Norton, Ann V. Paradoxical Feminism. Lanham: International Scholars P, 2000.

    Rollyson, Carl. Rebecca West: A Life. New York: Scribner’s, 1996.

    Stuhlmann, Gunther ed. Introduction. A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller 1932-1953. San Diego: Harcourt, 1987.

    West, Rebecca. The Art of Skepticism. Vogue Nov. 1, 1952, 114-115, & 167-168.

    ----. Hero-Worship of D.H. Lawrence. Daily Telegraph June 24, 1932: 6. col. 3-5.

    ----. Marriage. Rev. of Marriage by H.G. Wells. Rpt. in The Young Rebecca: Writings of Rebecca West 1911-17. Ed. and introd. Jane Marcus. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1982. 64-69.

    Notes

    [1] Their visits are described in detail in Fire: 89; 118-119; 129-133. Nin’s and West’s biographers also describe their visits; see Fitch, 182; Rollyson, 170; and Bair, 213-214.

    [2] This letter and those subsequently quoted are housed in the largest collection of West’s papers in the McFarlin Library at the University of Tulsa. I gratefully acknowledge The Anaïs Nin Trust as well as a travel-to-collection grant I received from Tulsa Studies in Women’s Literature that made examination of these materials possible.

    [3] My thanks to the document delivery staff at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne—particularly Mark Schobert, Christine Smith, and Cheryl Truesdell—for locating this elusive document.

    [TOC][MasterTOC]

    Kazuko Sugisaki

    Translating Anaïs Nin’s Incest into Japanese

    Inciting the eye of a Yin woman

    I shall begin with a story.

    One fine day you are invited to a castle on the top of a mountain, and given a tour of the place. It is a beautiful castle built of marble, colorful tiles, and glass. It has several towers, countless rooms, windows and doors. Mirrors are everywhere. Fires are burning in fireplaces. One staircase leads you underground. There you find intricate labyrinths in which you are almost trapped. You are told that a woman has built this castle, all alone, devoting all her life to it. You are awed by its splendor.

    I wonder if you could build another castle just like this, an exact replica, in a foreign land, a voice says. I’ll give you one hundred dollars for the work. Of course, you could say, No, and flatly decline the ridiculously unrealistic offer. But, there is something irresistible about the tone of the voice, and besides, you are so fascinated by the castle. You think and hesitate, but finally decide that maybe you have the ability to do it. So you say, Yes, I’ll try my best.

    Now, it turns out that in the foreign land where the new castle is to be constructed none of the material used for the original can be obtained. So you have to use some ordinary stone instead of marble, paper instead of glass. You have a lot of other things to use—rocks, pebbles, wood, bamboo, sea-plants, flower petals. You work desperately hard and since you are a good craftsperson, one day the castle is complete. It looks just like the original and is just as intricate and beautiful. The only problem is that you know it is not the exact replica of the original.

    This is precisely what I am experiencing translating Anaïs Nin’s Incest into Japanese. It is an enormous project. The book is four hundred and three pages thick, and it demands that I pay very scrupulous attention to every detail of it in terms of meaning, ideas, expression, and the harmony of the whole. Very often while crafting this and that I find myself lost in Nin’s unending labyrinths.

    Translation of literature is hard work! It requires time, effort, persistence, perseverance, patience, literary sensitivity, and above all, you yourself must be an artist to create literature in the receptor language. In the end, your work brings you neither fame nor money.

    Then why do you do it? Why do you spend months, years sometimes, laboring over someone else’s artwork, trying to transform it into another language? It seems such an unrewarding labor. You do it, I suppose, just for the love of it. You read a particular work of literature, and you fall in love with it. You feel you understand it well enough to want to share the experience with someone else, with those around you, and with many others who don’t know the original language. You also admire the writing style so much that you are tempted to recreate it in your own language. It is a challenge, a tormenting, yet enjoyable and exciting challenge.

    There is something very different in translating English into Japanese from that into any of the European languages. First of all, letters we use are worlds apart. One word Nin is obsessed with, love, becomes ai in Japanese. It does not look anything like French amour, or German libe, does it? I feed the word shoka to the machine. It is another favorite word of Nin’s. Very faithfully the computer gives 47 possible choices. Depending on the characters you use for the same pronunciation, meanings are totally different. It can mean digestion, fire extinguishing, children’s song, department of business, merchant, and forty-two other things. With Nin, it is always this shoka—sublimation. (After repeating the conversion process thousands of times, one evening, my computer refused to do the job!)

    And there is the problem of I and you. There are countless ways of saying I and you in the Japanese language depending on the speaker’s gender, age, social status, occasions, situations, etc. It is obvious that Anaïs’s I (watakushi) should be different from Henry’s I (boku). But should Henry’s I be different from Hugo’s? What about Anaïs’s father’s I and Rank’s? Should it be an imposing I for father or gentle and humble? By choosing a particular I for a particular person, we can almost define his or her character.

    In the episode in which Allendy proposes flogging Anaïs, he says, …Henry hasn’t beaten you, has he? I’m going to possess you as you never have been possessed. You devil.[1]

    Mocking and slighting you (omae) in this case certainly should be different from admiring and endearing you (anata) when Rank uses it:

    I have been looking for a name for you, I (Anaïs) said.

    I, too, said Rank, and I can only think of YOU. When I say YOU, you stand before me.[2]

    One of the main issues of literary translation is whether a translation should read as a contemporary of the original or as that of the translator. If, for instance, Shakespeare is read and spoken in 17th century Japanese, our contemporary audience would have a hard time understanding him. On the other hand, the text must give some texture, some flavor that indicates its origin.

    What I feel to be unique and remarkable characteristics of Nin’s writing style is that, even though most of Incest was written in the early 1930s, it is amazingly modern. Translating it seventy years later, I have no concerns whether or not faithful reconstruction of any Nin passages may sound too archaic.

    It is because, perhaps, she writes almost exclusively about her inner world where her own private climate prevails, the climate whose air is charged with the psychological, the emotional, and the sensual. Kissing, caressing, desire, joy, exaltation, understanding,

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