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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780156272483 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 11/30/1983 |
| Series: | Early Diary of Anais Nin Series |
| Edition description: | First Edition |
| Pages: | 576 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.12(w) x 9.25(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
1920
Summer. Richmond Hill. From afar our house looks like those they paint on Christmas cards. From near you can see it needs paint, that the porch is not very steady, that the railing which comes up to the entrance is rotted, and that the squirrels who run up and down the roof have found plenty of holes in it in which to make comfortable nests.
At night it is at its best. You see only the lights shining through the windows, shining the better because there are no shades, and you see the outline of its sharp slanting roof against the sky.
We moved in last night. Only part of the furniture had come. We ate by candlelight, and all slept in the same room, because it was stormy outside and we felt strange and lost in the big house. The candles threw fearful shadows on the walls, and many doors we were not used to opened unexpectedly into dark rooms. Our voices sounded hollow and dismal. We asked, however, with impatience: "Mother, whose room will this be?"
"We'll see tomorrow, in the daylight."
Tomorrow was long in coming. We were awake all night, with the sound of the rain and wind, with the shaking of windows and, worst of all, with strange footsteps on the roof.
Once, I walked to the window, and when the lightning flashed I saw that Joaquin's eyes were wide open and that he was frightened too.
"What is that noise on the roof?" he whispered.
"That is what I'm trying to see."
"What are you doing by the window?" asked Mother.
"There's a noise on the roof."
"That's nothing," said Mother, and went to sleep.
Meanwhile Joaquin's head and mine were imagining stories. A man was surely looking down on us through the holes in the roof, to see what the people were like who had bought the old house. What did he think of us? Why was he running back and forth on the roof? Would the morning ever come and frighten him away? No. He was taking advantage of an endless night, of the rain, of the lonely hill.
When Mother slept I went to the window again. Joaquin watched me with enormous eyes. All night the man ran up and down the roof, very fast, very nervously. All night it rained. Joaquin and I waited for the morning, and as soon as it came we dressed, and slipped out of the room, and went slowly downstairs and out of the house. We began to examine the roof anxiously. Immediately we saw the squirrels hurrying back and forth, in great excitement, up and down the slanting roof, in and out of mysterious holes, and along the very edge of it — the squirrels, disturbed by our arrival, restless and unable to sleep too, angry perhaps, and fearful of being chased out of their home. They had nothing to worry about. We fed them, and they came down from the roof to look into the house, at the new furniture, old to us, but new to them, I mean.
The rooms were distributed. The corner one is mine, because everybody can see I need the sunshine the most. It has a fireplace and four windows, two looking toward the woods, and two toward the village, of which I can only see a few housetops.
Joaquin has a smaller one next to mine, with one window toward the woods and the other toward the station. Opposite these, and giving onto the garden, Mother and Thorvald1 have their rooms.
We spent the morning opening trunks, hanging pictures and curtains, pushing furniture around. My books are on the mantelpiece, with my journals, so I consider myself settled down.
July 9. There is a little volume I often turn to at night after my daily tasks are all accomplished, for sweet, mute sympathy. I call it my Diary, and have grown to love it very dearly, adding always so much of myself and my life that it has all grown into many many little books, in which I am never tired of writing. You are today made one of them, and perhaps the only distinction I make in my treatment of you is the use of the English language in place of the French. It makes little difference, after all, what language the tongue employs if it speaks from the heart, does it not? Habitually I find myself quite alone in carrying out this little daily-life chronicle, but now Eduardo, my cousin, admits he has begun his in school, and so many things, a myriad of them, bring us together, whether it be our inclination to regard life as poetically as possible, or our love of books, our ambitions, our ideals. Somehow we are led to believe that our lives will not be uninteresting ... to ourselves ... and to each other. Eduardo does not read French as freely as I read English, and we wish to show each other parts of our diaries.
I begin today then to confide in you, little Diary of mine. These are now the best years of my life, for I have hope. I have heaps of friendly thoughts in my head, and an immense quantity of hope, of illusions. When these things leave me, I prefer to die, and until then I will live with all my heart this glorious life, which is a strange mixture of monotonous tasks and delicious emotions, sprinkled now and then with little incidents out of the ordinary, and the realization of some sweet, tender daydream.
I had dreamed of someone whose intellectual life would be, somehow, in harmony with mine, that I might realize all is not madness, that others, too, experience the emotions and thoughts I guiltily wrote in the pure white pages of my life record. And my dream came true, for Eduardo accidentally came to my house, and as we spoke he responded in every way to the flights of my imagination.
I may write more later. I have to tell you how I suffered a great disillusionment, the fall of one of my idols, and yet it has passed like a nightmare; it is only a memory of a bad night after the sunshine penetrates my room and my heart again.
July 10. There is something now that makes the days seem like a drop of water in an ocean; the hours flit by, uncounted, the days are never too long. I cannot understand this wonderful contentment. I am supremely satisfied with the sunshine, with those around me, with everything, and yet there is a great deal to do in the house, and Thorvald and Joaquin still at times tease me mercilessly, but those little things which at other times are the superficial causes of my unreasonable sadness pass now almost unnoticed.
Charles has come to see us. His mother and Antolinita are at the hotel and will come tomorrow. Charles has not changed very much. He is quite his old self, now, as he sits quietly reading downstairs, with no need of what we call company (for true companionship is not often found in people but in books and dreams).
Eduardo and I went to the theatre last night. You know that usually I speak to you of theatre, dances and things of that kind very superficially and without interest, still less with comments. I think it is because I find myself such a poor judge in matters of amusements, lacking as I do the quality of being sociable. Yet last night you would have loved to be near me, as we spoke between the acts of the things you and I love, of the things I thought I would only speak of to you, secret. And the play itself was well acted, although neither Eduardo nor I could find it in our hearts to admire the characters. It was the Famous Mrs. Fair, with Blanche Bates, and all those who supported her role seemed so very sincere in their parts that at times one's emotions were truly roused and we sympathized deeply.
How strange it is! Just now Eduardo allowed me to read his diary. I write "strange" because I feel so blind, so blind at times, wondering how other people see life, how other people think and what they wonder about. Eduardo tries to fathom the deep, strong, passionate emotions music arouses, beautiful music particularly and perhaps only; and the meaning of it all. I can see that Eduardo understands people better than I do and it makes me thoughtful. I wish I knew his secret and then I would not suffer so. There is one thing now of which I am certain. All the confidences I place in my cousin, on account of mutual likes and dislikes, are not ridiculed ... too much. The proof is that while he is here I somehow do not fear to show him what I write, and yet I would rather burn every page of my Diary than allow Thorvald to see it, and for that matter, Charles also, he is so sarcastic.
We spoke of our neighbors at lunchtime. People say I am distant, cold perhaps. It is strange, is it not? I am thinking of this now because I am alone, and wondering ... When all around me is still, I can hear my thoughts whisper to one another, laughing very sweetly, very softly at me. Soon the house will be gay again and perhaps I will laugh often or oftener than the others. Cold and distant indeed ... But through all the days, until I grow old and wise and weary, I will be kept wondering by many things.
July 13. I am disconsolately writing in bed, being ill, both Joaquin and I, since yesterday. At times I would not care so much; in fact, usually I enjoy this confinement, which harmonizes with my indifference toward certain things, but just now Mother has a great deal to do, and I can't help her, and every hour I waste away weighs heavily upon my conscience. The trouble is that my head aches so that I cannot walk. Poor little Joaquin is lying very still and angelically in the tiny room next to mine. I cannot even take care of him. Yesterday when I tried to lie still, I began to think and think until my eyes were full of tears. Then I fell asleep and dreamed that I was dying and that nobody missed me or cared. I thought of this so much that when Mother came at midnight to see if I wanted anything, I asked her if she loved me. I am sure Mother does love me, and Joaquin also, but Thorvald? Oh, Thorvald grows more like a rock every day. When I told him perhaps Joaquin and I were going to have the measles, he answered: "I hope so," which, even being said for fun, sounds ... like Thorvald!
I am afraid Eduardo finds it very dull here. It seems like a hospital, and the house is lonesome and still. The leaves rustle all day long. As I noticed today the soft, rich, warm color of the branches, I compared them with their winter disguise, the cold brilliant, icicle-laden branches. It makes me think that what I like in trees I like in people too, because I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.
July 14. What strange and complete loneliness! I do believe that it was not my real self who took the days so lightly, but now it is, because I am lonely again and undescribably sad. I went to the theatre with Antolinita and saw Honey Girl. I could not appreciate its versatile charm and could never smile at the correct moment. It was very hot, oh, so hot, and people seemed tired, and though Antolinita was in a wonderful humor, I continually followed two trends of thought — one in harmony with her own, the other fearfully contemplative and vague.
Two things are apparently the cause of my crisis. A storm, a beautiful, terrifying storm, is about to break; there are lightning and thunder and strange, heavy gray clouds, but the rain remains up there; the thirsty grass seems to long for it — just as I long for the second cause of my reflective mood: I think it is Eduardo's companionship I miss. The week we spent together was perfect, because our correspondence in some magic way opened the golden door to the world we each created alone, but allowed us to go in together. Our conversations were like spells, which were broken always regretfully. Eduardo never ridiculed anything and understood everything. The sketch I would like to make of him for you I am powerless to draw, not for lack of mere words, but because I cannot materialize or explain or understand him. I just feel his sensitiveness, his love of beauty. I know what he dislikes and what appeals to him, and of all things, when I watched him listening to music I was thrilled by the realization that melody arouses his emotions to the edge of the infinite. One night we visited Tia Coco1 at the inn, and before leaving we slipped into the dance hall for a few minutes: It was like flying through the clouds. He is generous too; he brought me flowers to adorn the house, and a pink Kewpie doll while I was ill. Being with Eduardo I realized Thorvald's indifference, Joaquin's baby age, Mother's absorbed life, and every night this week I remembered to pray to the blue heavens for having given me a cousin like Eduardo and the vision of what perfect companionship truly is — even for only a week's lifetime!
The rain is pattering, soft and soothing. I had to leave the porch and come to my room. A great many thoughts are crowding into my foolish head, and I must write until bedtime. In the beginning of this book I told you I wanted to confide to you my disenchantment, and then the days seemed so full of sunshine that I forgot Marcus2 absolutely. But now, if I am to write of the people who come into my life, and go away, and if I am to describe life as I see it, I have to write everything. This was a lesson, a severe and cruel lesson. I must not, I must not idealize people. It is unjust to them, and unjust to me also, but until what age am I going to be totally blind?
One afternoon, the day Eduardo came, Marcus also came to see me. We spoke of books, of artists, of a great many things, with long, awkward silences now and then. It was torture for me because all my ancient instinctive yearning to fly possessed me, and I noticed how Eduardo watched Marcus with twinkling eyes, and realized vaguely that I was strongly, oh, so strongly, tempted to laugh with him. After a few hours Marcus went home, and I, thinking how far he had come just to see me, was still blind, but I was glad it was not Eduardo who was going — which proves? Nothing at all!
That evening we all walked for the mere pleasure of walking and I was teased and teased about the unfortunate Marcus. When the jests ended and Eduardo and I found ourselves walking a little apart, I asked him earnestly to give me his opinion of Marcus. He spoke seriously and truthfully. I was very thoughtful afterward.
The next day I met Marcus to visit the Museum of Art. He called me twenty times, very gravely, "my dear child." It was our last day together because he was going somewhere to study, and as he spoke I felt a great wave of pity, and wondered whether I liked the unhappy boy just because no one else could endure him, and the boys thought him contemptible, effeminate ... and then my castle was shattered.
The boy I once idealized enough through his letters, his poetry, to call a Prince, the boy I thought no one liked because he was simply "different," the boy I once admired and respected — asked me to kiss him goodbye! I believe he saw the surprise, the pain, the anger, in my eyes. I could not speak. Marcus knew I did not and would never love him, but he thought so lightly of what I hold most sacred and precious that he dared to ask for it. "Will you?" he asked again, "Will you?" I said no very quietly, and feeling sorry, I added softly, "Don't be angry, please." But since then I cannot control my sentiments and deep in my heart I feel I cannot even like my poor shattered idol. Now it is all written. It seems as if I am always climbing the dangerous ladder to reach romance and always slipping down again. But wait — I am going to leave romance for other things now and climb the ladder of knowledge. Perhaps the most perfect friendship in the world is the one that does not ask for anything. And perhaps there is nothing lovelier reserved for me than this week of delicious harmony with my cousin, because we gave each other the best we had, and asked for nothing but sincerity and sympathy. Perhaps I have gray hairs today. Who knows? It is not easy to learn, and to learn by experience.
July 15. To write a poem is not painful, and yet after hours are spent on it, polishing and retouching, there is a certain touch of despair mingled with our other feelings that indicates the lack of perfect, undoubted satisfaction, a certain self-reproach because the lines do not carry the entire beauty of the sentiment. I wrote something which, as I read it, and each time I read it, thrills me profoundly. This morning, while I worked with Mother, visions of waves, of foam, seaweeds, sand and moonlight danced before my eyes, and my fingers laboriously completed the calculations while my head wandered.
This afternoon I played a game of wild tennis with intense dislike, played atrociously, and then I sat in my room to ponder over Frances's1 letter; it is very much unlike her, and I do fear this last friend is "going away" from me too. There is perhaps something wrong with me, although I always seem to give so much when I love and like, and do not ask for the moon.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin Volume Two 1920-1923"
by .
Copyright © 1983 Rupert Pole as Trustee for the Anaïs Nin Trust.
Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Title Page,
Table of Contents,
Copyright,
Editor's Note,
List of Illustrations,
Preface,
THE EARLY DIARY OF ANAÏS NIN,
1920,
1921,
Photos 1,
1922,
Photos 2,
1923,
Glossary of Family Names,
Index,
About the Author,
Footnotes,