Name: The Diary of Anais Nin
Availability: InStock
Rating: 8.4 (25 reviews)
Author: Anais Nin
ISBN: 9780156260251

Anaïs Nin的在日记里写道她在世界中"built for herself an 'image', a 'persona' which enabled her to face the world." "I played roles I felt I was expected to play"，但她在日记里如此真诚，如此智慧，难以想象她在社交场合什么样儿。

当成小说来读。Anaïs Nin is the Pisces woman of all times and I’m obsessed with June I need a June of my own.

The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares ...

Man can control his destiny, to extent that he becomes aware of these tropisms, but it requires a real initiation, similar to Buddhist discipline which enable disciples to escape their Karma throug...

...What is my true nature? What is June's? Is mine idealism, spirituality, poetry, imagination, sense of beauty, a need of beauty, a fundamental Rimbaud innocence, a certain purity? I need to creat...

“What makes people despair is that they try to find a universal meaning to the whole life, and then end up by saying it is absurd, illogical, empty of meaning. There is not one big, cosmic meaning...

June and I have paid with our souls for taking fantasies seriously, for living a life as a theatre, or loving costumes and changes of selves, for wearing masks and disguises. But I know always what...

A few days ago he brought me an article by Henry Miller on Bunuel's film L'Age d'Or. It was as potent as a bomb. It reminded me of D.H.Lawrence's ''I am a human bomb.'' There is in this piece of wr...

My rhythm is slow. I am resisting entering life again, pain, activity, conflicts. Everything is beginning anew; the day is soft but perishable, like a sigh, the last sigh of summer, neat and and fo...

The hero of this book may be the soul, but it is an odyssey from the inner to the outer world, and it is Henry who is dispelling the fogs of shyness, of solitude, taking me through the street, and ...

Henry is no Proust, lingeringly tasting all things; he lives by gusts, by leaps. He never stops to understand; he disperses his time and energy with prodigality. Writers do not live one life, they ...

For me, he is a living force, not a destructive one. I am amazed how many streets he can walk in a day, how many letters he can write, how many books he can read, how many people he can talk to, ho...

''The diary taught me that it is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately. I learned to choose the heightened moments because they are the moments ot r...

It takes character to write a long, lifelong diary, a book, to create several homes, to travel, to protect others, and yet I have no character in human relationships. I cannot scold a maid, tell a ...

I live more on time. What is remembered later does not seem as true to me. I have such a need of truth! It must be that need of immediate recording which incites me to write almost while I am livin...

There are some things one cannot seize by realism, but by poetry. It is a matter of language.

Henry says angrily, ''She is an empty box.'' And he adds, ''You are the full box.'' To think of her in the middle of the day lifts me out of ordinary living. Who wants the ideas, the fantasies, the...

To be fully alive is to live unconsciously and instinctively in all directions, as Henry and June do. Idealism is the death of the body and o the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death.

She would not read books on travel but she sat alert in the cafe to catch the appearance of an Abyssinian, a Greek, an Iranian, a Hindu, who would bear direct news from home, who would be carrying ...

I said: ''I do feel that perhaps you did not ask the correct questions of the Sphinx.'' ''What would you ask?'' ''I would not be concerned with the secrets, the lies, the mysteries, the facts. I wo...

I have always believed in Andre Breton's freedom, to write as one thinks, in the order and disorder in which one feels and thinks, to follow sensations and absurd correlations of events and images,...

He(Richard Osborn) acts like a man on a trapeze who must not look down at the public. If he looks below he will fall. He will fall somewhere between his lawyer's office and Montparnasse. No one wil...

Every room is painted a different color. As if there were one room for every separate mood: lacquer red for vehemence, pale turquoise for reveries, peach color for gentleness, green for repose, gre...

I had a sense of preparation for a love to come. Like the extension of canopies, the unrolling of ceremonial carpets, as if I must first creat a marvelous world in which to house it, in which to re...

I chose the house for many reasons. Because it seemed to have sprouted out of the earth like a tree, so deeply grooved it was within the old garden. It had no cellar and the rooms rested right on t...

The garden smells of honeysuckle in the summer, of wet leaves in the winter. One hears the whistle of the small train from and to Paris. It is a train which looks ancient, as if it were still carri...

Louveciennes resembles the village where Madame Bovary lived and died. It is old, untouched and unchanged by modern life. It is built on a hill overlooking the Seine. On clear nights one can see Pa...

The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that I expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated. ''

Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to Dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We...

A few days ago he brought me an article by Henry Miller on Bunuel's film L'Age d'Or. It was as potent as a bomb. It reminded me of D.H.Lawrence's ''I am a human bomb.''

There is in this piece of writing a primitive, savage quality. By contrast with the writers I have been reading, It seems like a jungle. Only a short article, but the words are slung like hatchets, explode with hatred, and it was like hearing wild drums in the midst of the Tuileries gardens.

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book(Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. THe second sy...

June and I have paid with our souls for taking fantasies seriously, for living a life as a theatre, or loving costumes and changes of selves, for wearing masks and disguises. But I know always what is real. Does June?

...What is my true nature? What is June's? Is mine idealism, spirituality, poetry, imagination, sense of beauty, a need of beauty, a fundamental Rimbaud innocence, a certain purity? I need to create, I hate cruelty. But when I have wanted to go deep into evil, this evil changes as I approach it. Henry and June change as I come near to them. I destroy the worlds I want to enter. I arouse creativeness in Henry, romanticism in June.

Man can control his destiny, to extent that he becomes aware of these tropisms, but it requires a real initiation, similar to Buddhist discipline which enable disciples to escape their Karma through knowledge.

Louveciennes resembles the village where Madame Bovary lived and died. It is old, untouched and unchanged by modern life. It is built on a hill overlooking the Seine. On clear nights one can see Paris. It has an old church dominating a group of small houses, cobblestone streets, and several large properties, manor houses, a castle on the outskirts of the village. One of the properties belonged to Madame du Barry. During the revolution her lover was guillotined and his head thrown over the ivy-covered wall into her garten. This is now the property of Coty.

The garden smells of honeysuckle in the summer, of wet leaves in the winter. One hears the whistle of the small train from and to Paris. It is a train which looks ancient, as if it were still carring the personages of Proust's novels to dine in the country.

I chose the house for many reasons.

Because it seemed to have sprouted out of the earth like a tree, so deeply grooved it was within the old garden. It had no cellar and the rooms rested right on the ground. Below the rug, I felt, was the earth. I could take root here, feel at one with the house and the garden, take nourishment from them like the plants.

I had a sense of preparation for a love to come. Like the extension of canopies, the unrolling of ceremonial carpets, as if I must first creat a marvelous world in which to house it, in which to receive adequately this guest of honor.

Every room is painted a different color. As if there were one room for every separate mood: lacquer red for vehemence, pale turquoise for reveries, peach color for gentleness, green for repose, grey for work at the typewriter.

Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.

I want to be a writer who reminds others that these moments exist; I want to prove that there is infinite space, infinite meaning, infinite dimension.

But I am not always in what I call a state of grace. I have days of illuminations and fevers. I have days when the music in my head stops. Then I mend socks, prune trees, can fruits, polish furniture. But while I am doing this I feel I am not living.

He(Richard Osborn) acts like a man on a trapeze who must not look down at the public. If he looks below he will fall. He will fall somewhere between his lawyer's office and Montparnasse. No one will know where to look for him for he hides his two faces from all.

I have always believed in Andre Breton's freedom, to write as one thinks, in the order and disorder in which one feels and thinks, to follow sensations and absurd correlations of events and images, to trust to the new realms they lead one into.

I said: ''I do feel that perhaps you did not ask the correct questions of the Sphinx.''
''What would you ask?''
''I would not be concerned with the secrets, the lies, the mysteries, the facts. I would be concerned with what makes them necessary. What fear.''
This, I feel, Henry does not understand. He is the great collector of facts, and the essence sometimes escapes him.

She would not read books on travel but she sat alert in the cafe to catch the appearance of an Abyssinian, a Greek, an Iranian, a Hindu, who would bear direct news from home, who would be carrying photographs from his family, and who would deliver to her personally all the flavors of his country.

Henry says angrily, ''She is an empty box.'' And he adds, ''You are the full box.'' To think of her in the middle of the day lifts me out of ordinary living. Who wants the ideas, the fantasies, the contents, if the box is beautiful and inspiring. I am inspired by June the empty box. The world has never been as empty as since I have known her. Precisely because a world full of ideas, talent, fantasies, is not a full world. June supplies the beautiful incandescent flesh, the fulgurant voice, the abysmal eyes, the drugged gestures, the presence of the body, the incarnation of our dreams and creations. What are we? Only the creators. She IS. What a dull world without June. No Beauty. No Voice. No Presence. All the poetry written, all the erotic imaginings, all the obsessions, illusions, nightm...

I live more on time. What is remembered later does not seem as true to me. I have such a need of truth! It must be that need of immediate recording which incites me to write almost while I am living, before it is altered, changed by distance or time.

It takes character to write a long, lifelong diary, a book, to create several homes, to travel, to protect others, and yet I have no character in human relationships. I cannot scold a maid, tell a hurtful truth, assert my wishes, be angry at injustice or treachery.

I heard Joaquin say: ''Anais is a dreamer, she has no sense of reality. It is reality she thinks Henry is revealing to her.

''The diary taught me that it is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately. I learned to choose the heightened moments because they are the moments ot revelation.

“When caring ceases, when one no longer struggles to building solidly, indestructibly, no longer erects cathedrals of faithfulness to the past, cathedrals of emotion, when one enters the realms of laxity, areas as of indifference and resignation, letting l...

The world of Anaïs Nin, an enigma, a dream, an illusion. That’s Life. Life. Life.

Vol. 1 (1931-1934)

This celebrated volume begins when Nin is about to publish her first book and ends when she leaves Paris for New York. Edited and with a Preface by Gunther tuhlmann; Index.
