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House of Incest
With an introduction by Allison Pease, this new edition of House of Incest is a lyrical journey into the subconscious mind of one of the most celebrated feminist writers of the twentieth-century. Originally published in 1936, House of Incest is Anaïs Nin’s first work of fiction. Based on Nin’s dreams, the novel is a surrealistic look within the narrator’s subconscious as she attempts to distance herself from a series of all-consuming and often taboo desires she cannot bear to let go. The incest Nin depicts is a metaphor—a selfish love wherein a woman can appreciate only qualities in a lover that are similar to her own. Through a descriptive exploration of romances and attractions between women, between a sister and her beloved brother, and with a Christ-like man, Nin’s narrator discovers what she thinks is that a woman’s most perfect love is of herself. At first, this self-love seems ideal because it is attainable without fear and risk of heartbreak. But in time, the narrator’s chosen isolation and self-possessed anguish give way to a visceral nightmare from which she is unable to wake.
72 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1915
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8585 people want to read
About the author
Anaïs Nin
277 books8,880 followersWriter and diarist, born in Paris to a Catalan father and a Danish mother, Anaïs Nin spent many of her early years with Cuban relatives. Later a naturalized American citizen, she lived and worked in Paris, New York and Los Angeles. Author of avant-garde novels in the French surrealistic style and collections of erotica, she is best known for her life and times in The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volumes I-VII (1966-1980).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana%C3%...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana%C3%...
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 493 reviews
July 20, 2013
What do they say about pretty words strung together into passages pregnant with symbolism and implications, some of them beyond the grasp of a dilettante like me? How do they compartmentalize Anaïs Nin's writing?
'Erotica' they like to call it, perhaps, putting focus on the sexual imagery Nin invokes with the flair of her pen.
But I would rather not enclose Nin's genius inside the banal prison of a genre like erotica. Her words, like splotches of the most exotic water color, coalesce into an abstract painting of such acute beauty that one can only stare at the phantasmagorical picture that forms in front of the mind's eye, with a deep sense of wonderment.
Her words are magic. Her words instill life into the seemingly lifeless form of a road stretching ahead. Her words transform a taboo subject like incest into a fathomable, even an acceptable reality of our existence and temporarily divorce us from the social conventions, of the material world, as we know them. Her words whisk us away to a secluded, floating world where only surreal landscapes of Nin's imagination sprawl far and wide in all their majestic splendour. And the reader can only be a besotted traveller enjoying a one-of-a-kind sojourn - soaking up all the incomprehensible loveliness of Nin's prose in small bursts.
Her words accord a kind of literary immortality to so many hackneyed humane emotions and sentiments.
Her words are exquisite poetry.
I do understand why Rowena and Lynne kept recommending Anaïs Nin to me. I'll now begin the quest of procuring all her published writings.
'Erotica' they like to call it, perhaps, putting focus on the sexual imagery Nin invokes with the flair of her pen.
But I would rather not enclose Nin's genius inside the banal prison of a genre like erotica. Her words, like splotches of the most exotic water color, coalesce into an abstract painting of such acute beauty that one can only stare at the phantasmagorical picture that forms in front of the mind's eye, with a deep sense of wonderment.
Her words are magic. Her words instill life into the seemingly lifeless form of a road stretching ahead. Her words transform a taboo subject like incest into a fathomable, even an acceptable reality of our existence and temporarily divorce us from the social conventions, of the material world, as we know them. Her words whisk us away to a secluded, floating world where only surreal landscapes of Nin's imagination sprawl far and wide in all their majestic splendour. And the reader can only be a besotted traveller enjoying a one-of-a-kind sojourn - soaking up all the incomprehensible loveliness of Nin's prose in small bursts.
"I felt only the caress of moving - moving into the body of another - absorbed and lost within the flesh of another lulled by the rythm of water, the slow palpitation of the senses, the movement of silk..
Loving without knowingness, moving without effort, in the soft current of water and desire, breathing in an ecstasy of dissolution.
I awoke at dawn, thrown up on a rock, the skeleton of a ship choked in its own sails."
Her words accord a kind of literary immortality to so many hackneyed humane emotions and sentiments.
"But Jeanne, fear of madness, only the fear of madness will drive us out of the precincts of our solitude, out of the sacredness of our solitude. The fear of madness will burn down the walls of our secret house and send us out into the world seeking warm contact. Worlds self-made and self-nourished are so full of ghosts and monsters."
Her words are exquisite poetry.
I do understand why Rowena and Lynne kept recommending Anaïs Nin to me. I'll now begin the quest of procuring all her published writings.
February 12, 2016
أناييس ننّ، الكاتبة الفرنسية
التي اقرأ لها لأول مرة
فعل القراءة لها مُربك
خاصة لمن لم يعتاد هذا الأسلوب في الكتابة بعد
بيت المحرمات
هي نصوص شعرية، أقرب إلى الهذيان منها إلى حالة الكتابة
وبالرغم من شاعرية النص، لن تجد فيه المفردات الجذابة المعتادة في النصوص الشعرية
أناييس ننّ تترك الطبيعة والجمال وكل تلك الكلمات التي يستعين بها الشعراء لجعل نصوصهم موسيقية وشاعرية
وتستعيض عنها بوصف الخراب والدمار داخلها، وتشبيهات غريبة الأطوار تمامًا كما أن نصوصها غريبة الأطوار!!
تشبه الأشياء من حولها بالمعادن!
كل فعل وكل شيء حولها له معدن ما يشبهه
رغم ذلك لن تشعر أن المعاني جافة
بل ستأسرك موسيقى النص وتخترقك
كما أن النص وشاعريته وتشبيهاته، غريبة الأطوار
فإن قصة النص نفسه غريبة بل وشاذة أيضًا
علاقة عاطفية بين امرأتين، وأخرى بين أخ وأخته!!
لكن عدم محورية القصة في النص، وعدم التركيز عليها
وتأرجحها بين الحقيقة والخيال، بين الصدق والهذيان
يضعك في موقف مُربك بين استنكار الفكرة والإعجاب بالكلمة
في وسط حالة الهذيان التي وضعتني بها أثناء القراءة
كان بجانبها حالة من الرعب
كلماتها تشبهني وتعبّر عنيّ بشكل مُرعب
كان هناك سطور، كدت أشعر أنني أنا من كتبتها
أو أنها كانت بداخلي، تعرفني حقًا
وتعبّر عن كوامني بكلماتها الشاعرية التي لا أجيدها
نتشابه معًا في حب الوحدة والعزلة
الرغبة في التماهي في العزلة والخوف منها!
حب الأكاذيب، والبحث عن الحقيقة
ربما هنا يكمن الرعب، رعب المرة الأولى
التي تجد بها من يُشبهك
حين ستقرأ هذه النصوص، ستتمنى من الموسيقي بداخلك
أن لا تتوقف!
تمّت
May 13, 2016
Hemingway once famously said:
“There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a type writer and bleed.”
In “House of Incest”, Anais Nin has done just that.
For all those who have experienced it, or read about the experiences of creative writers, can see the truth in what Nin says in the opening line. The inspiration, or rather the contention, to write that which lingers between the conscious and subconscious is not easy to deal with, for it is not a neat catalogue of experiences but a rubble of discrepant emotions. So, Nin chose the medium of a Kafkaesque prose-poetry to ruffle through the ambiguities of dreams and reality.
Nin’s is a mind as sensitive as it is imaginative. She delves deep into her subconscious and discovers the dichotomies and incongruities of her personality. In this quest, the introspection of her psyches’ crisis, she progresses through layer after layer of her identity and sexuality, and punctuates it with a chocolaty vocabulary.
It was enjoyable because it was short, eloquent and imaginative.
Here is a poem that I wrote last night, and I am not sure that it has anything to do with this book or not, but like Anais, I just had to take it out of my system. I just had to sit down, and bleed …
You know, that void
The one poets talk about
Between desire and fulfillment
The cold, quiet abyss
That looms between
Everything and .... Nothing.
I have to tell you
'I am stuck there'
Somewhere between rainbows and darkness
In an eternal twilight
Of love .... And life
“There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a type writer and bleed.”
In “House of Incest”, Anais Nin has done just that.
For all those who have experienced it, or read about the experiences of creative writers, can see the truth in what Nin says in the opening line. The inspiration, or rather the contention, to write that which lingers between the conscious and subconscious is not easy to deal with, for it is not a neat catalogue of experiences but a rubble of discrepant emotions. So, Nin chose the medium of a Kafkaesque prose-poetry to ruffle through the ambiguities of dreams and reality.
Nin’s is a mind as sensitive as it is imaginative. She delves deep into her subconscious and discovers the dichotomies and incongruities of her personality. In this quest, the introspection of her psyches’ crisis, she progresses through layer after layer of her identity and sexuality, and punctuates it with a chocolaty vocabulary.
It was enjoyable because it was short, eloquent and imaginative.
Here is a poem that I wrote last night, and I am not sure that it has anything to do with this book or not, but like Anais, I just had to take it out of my system. I just had to sit down, and bleed …
You know, that void
The one poets talk about
Between desire and fulfillment
The cold, quiet abyss
That looms between
Everything and .... Nothing.
I have to tell you
'I am stuck there'
Somewhere between rainbows and darkness
In an eternal twilight
Of love .... And life
October 8, 2022
É recorrendo a um discurso febril e sumptuoso que Anaïs Nin leva a sua protagonista numa viagem mágica desde o fundo do mar...
Perdida dentro das cores da Atlântida, cores que vão dar a outras e se misturam sem fronteiras. Peixes feitos de veludo, de organdi com dentes de rendas, feitos de tafetá, recamados de lantejoulas, peixes de seda e penas e plumas.
...até terra, onde se envolve com Sabina...
Ele era um ídolo em Bizâncio, um ídolo a dançar, de pernas afastadas; e eu escrevia com pólen e mel. O doce segredo manso de mulher que eu esculpi nos cérebros dos homens, com palavras de cobre: imagem tatuada nos olhos deles.
...e, em seguida, até ao espaço...
O peso, oh o tremendo peso da cabeça puxada pelas nuvens e balançada no espaço, o corpo como um punhado de palha, o cabelo arrastado pelas nuvens como uma écharpe apanhada na roda de uma charrete, corpo oscilante, esbarrando contra estrelas-lanternas.
...ao encontro de Jeanne, que a conduz à casa do incesto.
O mundo é pequeno demais. Estou cansada de tocar guitarra, fazer malha, passear, parir crianças. Os homens são pequenos e as paixões são curtas. Irritam-me as escadas, as portas, as paredes, irrita-me o dia a dia que interfere na continuidade do êxtase.
“A Casa do Incesto” lê-se como um poema em prosa onde, mais do que a história, encanta a efervescência da escrita...
O fumo atirou-me a cabeça contra o tecto e aí ficou suspensa olhando com olhos de rã, cabelo de palha, boca de couro, espelhos de cabeças lisas sem cabelo, mãos peludas de macacos de palmas cor de rosa. A música fez sair o passado do túmulo e as múmias flagelaram-me a memória.
...e o arrebatamento amoroso...
Vou deixar-te levar-me até à fecundidade da destruição. Por isso me atribuo um corpo, um rosto e uma voz. Eu sou-te como tu me és. Cala o fluxo sensacional do teu corpo e encontrarás em mim, intactos, os teus medos e as tuas penas. Descobrirás o amor separado das paixões e eu descobrirei as paixões privadas de amor.
NOTA: A quem quiser ler, sugiro que opte pela edição da Sistema Solar. Esta da Assírio & Alvim em boa hora esgotou, visto que é péssima.
Perdida dentro das cores da Atlântida, cores que vão dar a outras e se misturam sem fronteiras. Peixes feitos de veludo, de organdi com dentes de rendas, feitos de tafetá, recamados de lantejoulas, peixes de seda e penas e plumas.
...até terra, onde se envolve com Sabina...
Ele era um ídolo em Bizâncio, um ídolo a dançar, de pernas afastadas; e eu escrevia com pólen e mel. O doce segredo manso de mulher que eu esculpi nos cérebros dos homens, com palavras de cobre: imagem tatuada nos olhos deles.
...e, em seguida, até ao espaço...
O peso, oh o tremendo peso da cabeça puxada pelas nuvens e balançada no espaço, o corpo como um punhado de palha, o cabelo arrastado pelas nuvens como uma écharpe apanhada na roda de uma charrete, corpo oscilante, esbarrando contra estrelas-lanternas.
...ao encontro de Jeanne, que a conduz à casa do incesto.
O mundo é pequeno demais. Estou cansada de tocar guitarra, fazer malha, passear, parir crianças. Os homens são pequenos e as paixões são curtas. Irritam-me as escadas, as portas, as paredes, irrita-me o dia a dia que interfere na continuidade do êxtase.
“A Casa do Incesto” lê-se como um poema em prosa onde, mais do que a história, encanta a efervescência da escrita...
O fumo atirou-me a cabeça contra o tecto e aí ficou suspensa olhando com olhos de rã, cabelo de palha, boca de couro, espelhos de cabeças lisas sem cabelo, mãos peludas de macacos de palmas cor de rosa. A música fez sair o passado do túmulo e as múmias flagelaram-me a memória.
...e o arrebatamento amoroso...
Vou deixar-te levar-me até à fecundidade da destruição. Por isso me atribuo um corpo, um rosto e uma voz. Eu sou-te como tu me és. Cala o fluxo sensacional do teu corpo e encontrarás em mim, intactos, os teus medos e as tuas penas. Descobrirás o amor separado das paixões e eu descobrirei as paixões privadas de amor.
NOTA: A quem quiser ler, sugiro que opte pela edição da Sistema Solar. Esta da Assírio & Alvim em boa hora esgotou, visto que é péssima.
June 25, 2023
"Don't say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you."
literary fiction authors step aside, anaïs nin is the real boss of "no thought, no plot, just vibes and gorgeous writing" 👌.
Read
March 12, 2023- اذا فهمنا الخلفية التي تكتب منها الكاتبة فسيبطل العجب، فنحن امام انسانة "فرويدية" هجرها والدها وهي صغيرة فاقامت علاقة جنسية معه وهي كبيرة، لتنتقم من ذلك الهجران!! ومن ثم كتبت هذا النص السريالي الرمزي لتخليد ذلك "القرف"، مقلدة ما فعلته بنات لوط (حسب التوراة) ومستعملةً ذات المشهد الوصفي، وأقتبس ""وبينما اتجول متعثرة بين غرفة واخرى، دخلت غرفة اللوحات، هناك جلس لوط ويده على نهد ابنته، بينما المدينة خلفهما تحترق"...
- بلا تقييم، فالمنطلق يتعارض وأبسط القيم الإنسانية الفطرية بل ربما الغريزة الحيوانية لا تسمح بذلك ايضاً...
- بلا تقييم، فالمنطلق يتعارض وأبسط القيم الإنسانية الفطرية بل ربما الغريزة الحيوانية لا تسمح بذلك ايضاً...
September 10, 2022
من کاملا تنهایم، اما همچنین ترسی دارم که خلوتم شکسته شود و دیگر سرور و فرمانروای جهانم نباشم. من وحشتی عظیم دارم از فهمیدن تو، چرا که تو با فهمت نفوذ میکنی به جهانم؛ و آنگاه منِ افشاشده میمانم و مجبور میشوم قلمرو پادشاهیام را با تو قسمت کنم...
یکی از کتابهای سورئال خوب و دلنشینی بود که خوندم.
یکی از کتابهای سورئال خوب و دلنشینی بود که خوندم.
August 15, 2010
Anaiis Nin continues to be insane. I continue to love her. It's an abusive, codependent relationship we have, but I have no intention of giving it up.
November 16, 2023
i feel held by anaïs nin’s writing. it feels like home.
December 30, 2019
کلماتی که انگار از دوزخ عبور کردهاند.
فرید قدمی کتاب را با نام “ سابینا “ ترجمه کرده؛ ترجمهای دقیق است به جز چند خطی که ترجمه نشده یا حذف شده به خاطر سانسور.
کاش از آنائیس نین بیشتر ترجمه شود که خوابگردی طولانیای دارد در کلمات، با چشمان باز
فرید قدمی کتاب را با نام “ سابینا “ ترجمه کرده؛ ترجمهای دقیق است به جز چند خطی که ترجمه نشده یا حذف شده به خاطر سانسور.
کاش از آنائیس نین بیشتر ترجمه شود که خوابگردی طولانیای دارد در کلمات، با چشمان باز
December 16, 2015
All that I know is contained in this book written without witness, an edifice without dimension, a city hanging in the sky.
This is the first book I’ve read of Anais Nin, a friend recommended Henry and June but I don’t have that yet but then I thought it’s not so bad to start with Nin’s first published book instead. Originally published in 1936, House of Incest was a challenging read for me since the prose was written in a dream-like fashion, surreal that it feels like she’s serenading me with strange melancholy, hypnotizing me to drift to a nightmare she’s experiencing. I got lost a couple of times, it’s quite a short book but it really demands a reader’s full attention.
I am ill with the obstinacy of images, reflections in cracked mirrors. I am a woman with Siamese cat eyes smiling always behind my gravest words, mocking my own intensity. I smile because I listen to the OTHER and believe the OTHER. I am a marionette pulled by unskilled fingers, pulled apart, inharmoniously dislocated; one arm dead and the other rhapsodizing in mid air.
This book was controversial for somewhere in the book Nin had veiledly written her incestuous relationship with her father but the Incest referred here was in metaphor and not of the literal sense. It's the obsession to oneself, a selfish love, a nightmare where she's battling with her duality that she needs to emerge from.
If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other, if only I could save you all from yourselves
Nin embraced her vulnerability and bared herself in this book, It was a confession like no other. She was well known for her erotic writings, they're explicit yet bathed with eloquence that made me thirst for more.
A voice that had traversed the centuries, so heavy it broke what it touched, so heavy I feared it would ring in me with eternal resonance, a voice rusty with the sound of curses and the hoarse cries that issue from the delta in the last paroxysm of orgasm.
January 9, 2022
“I AM THE OTHER FACE OF YOU.
Our faces have soldered together by soft hair, soldered together, showing two profiles of the same soul.
I borrowed your visibility and it was through you I made my imprint on the world.” (House of Incest, 1936)
Probably no one would argue if I said this quote was taken from Bergman’s 1966 masterpiece “Persona“. In fact, in the aftermath of reading Nin’s sublime work an inexorable link between the two was immediately formed.
Art is THE ultimate vehicle to express the intricate mechanics of the human mind and its fascinating, yet bottomless subconscious. It enables us to reach for the purest essence that remains indissoluble and lies outside the borders of language.
“The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. (…) The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out.” (Persona, 1966)
Both these works share a similar dream-like atmosphere alternating between subjective realities to reveal what Lacan posits in his mirror stage theory - that we only exist in relation to others, with our knowledge of the world being acquired from them, our language preceding us and shaping our desires.
House of incest is Nin’s first work of fiction and considered her most complex for its rich use of symbolism and allegories. It is truly wondrous what it achieves in its sigh-worthy watertight 48 indelible pages. I inhaled these in what felt like a single breath of the freshest air.
There is nothing remotely similar to her poetic use of language that is both visceral and alluring, pulling your heartstrings in every turn.
Some will flinch over the title, but don’t be fooled. Probably the best use of metaphor I’ve ever come across, the incest here alludes to the lover created as a phantom of one’s own imagination, being rather a projection of one’s self. We love unreal images that ultimately are a part of ourselves, therefore committing incestuous acts of love.
Hypnotic, sensual, daring, honest, fathomless and utterly inestimable. I am ready to consume each and every one of her words and I strongly advise you to do the same.
Our faces have soldered together by soft hair, soldered together, showing two profiles of the same soul.
I borrowed your visibility and it was through you I made my imprint on the world.” (House of Incest, 1936)
Probably no one would argue if I said this quote was taken from Bergman’s 1966 masterpiece “Persona“. In fact, in the aftermath of reading Nin’s sublime work an inexorable link between the two was immediately formed.
Art is THE ultimate vehicle to express the intricate mechanics of the human mind and its fascinating, yet bottomless subconscious. It enables us to reach for the purest essence that remains indissoluble and lies outside the borders of language.
“The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. (…) The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out.” (Persona, 1966)
Both these works share a similar dream-like atmosphere alternating between subjective realities to reveal what Lacan posits in his mirror stage theory - that we only exist in relation to others, with our knowledge of the world being acquired from them, our language preceding us and shaping our desires.
House of incest is Nin’s first work of fiction and considered her most complex for its rich use of symbolism and allegories. It is truly wondrous what it achieves in its sigh-worthy watertight 48 indelible pages. I inhaled these in what felt like a single breath of the freshest air.
There is nothing remotely similar to her poetic use of language that is both visceral and alluring, pulling your heartstrings in every turn.
Some will flinch over the title, but don’t be fooled. Probably the best use of metaphor I’ve ever come across, the incest here alludes to the lover created as a phantom of one’s own imagination, being rather a projection of one’s self. We love unreal images that ultimately are a part of ourselves, therefore committing incestuous acts of love.
Hypnotic, sensual, daring, honest, fathomless and utterly inestimable. I am ready to consume each and every one of her words and I strongly advise you to do the same.
September 28, 2007
A wild, intense assault of images. Visceral and raw. Thoroughly female and savage, in the best sense. I can't help but go back to it from time to time. Certain passages still thread through my mind with such power. "I am constantly reconstructing a pattern of something forever lost and which I cannot forget." "She was spreading herself like the night over the universe and found no god to lie with." I feel a deep, creative kinship with Nin for her common love and use of certain symbols: trees, eggs, blood, birds, etc. But most of all, we share a propensity to relate life experiences to the physical nature and processes of woman's body: pregnancy, birth, labor, cycles, nursing, motherhood, purpose in natural pain, etc. Oh, my dear, undone poetess. Be forewarned, Nin is not for the faint at heart. But if you have a taste for NIN and Tori Amos from time to time, this is prose you can sink your teeth into.
March 6, 2015
شعرت بالغثيان وان أقرء هذا الكتاب.. الكاتبة تعاني كبت و أمراض نفسية لاتعد ولا تحصى.. اخواني وأحبابي تجنبوا هذا الهراء..
January 25, 2016
Buddy read with Anya! <3
Read her wonderfully written review here
Such lush prose, such beautiful imagery! I may cry.
Oh, how do I describe this book? A mere 72 pages it was, but a prose so profound, words so wonderful, and language so lush I have not read in a long, long time. Was it erotica? Sure. But it was so much more than that! There is a raw beauty to the words, a beauty that I cannot explain with my limited vocabulary, so I shall give you a taste of the wondrous gift that is House of Incest.
"The night surrounded me, a photograph unglued from its frame. The lining of a coat ripped open like the two shells of an oyster. The day and night unglued, and I falling in between not knowing on which layer I was resting, whether it was the cold grey upper leaf of dawn, or the dark layer of night."
A love so powerful, between the narrator and Sabina, a woman described so magnificently, you cannot help but be intrigued by. A tale of love so deep, so profound, and so wonderfully raw that you cannot help but immerse yourself in. A loss so deep, a heart shattered, a woman separated from what was the reflection of herself.
"And she and I, we recognized each other; I her face and she my legend.
"Our faces are soldered together by soft hair, soldered together, showing two profiles of the same soul. Even when I passed through a room like a breath, I made others uneasy and they knew I had passed. This is the book you wrote, and you are the woman I am."
"If Sabina were now a memory; if I should sit here and she should never come again! If I only imagined her one night because the drug made fine incisions and arranged the layers of my body on Persian silk hammocks, tipped with cotton each fine nerve and sent the radium arrows of fantasy through the flesh…"
I mentioned in one of my previous reviews that I'd read perhaps the most eloquently written orgasm ever, well, Mr. Gaiman, I'm sorry to snatch your crown, but this book gets that distinction.
"Around my pulse she put a flat steel bracelet and my pulse beat as she willed, losing its human cadence, thumping like a savage in orgiastic frenzy. The lamentations of flutes, the double chant of wind through our slender bones, the cracking of our bones distantly remembered when on beds of down the worship we inspire turned to lust."
Bear in mind though, that incest isn't always as crude as interbreeding, or even forbidden love; incest is when you are passionately and utterly in love with someone who reflects everything that you are.
"If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other, if only I could save you all from yourselves, said the modern Christ."
I will leave you with this gem, because this book is art that has to be felt, these are words that have to be savoured, and a mere mortal like me can never do justice to something as great as this.
"Yet we knew that beyond the house of incest there was daylight, and none of us could walk towards it."
Fatty has done a much better job at reviewing this book than I have. Find her review here
Read her wonderfully written review here
Such lush prose, such beautiful imagery! I may cry.
Oh, how do I describe this book? A mere 72 pages it was, but a prose so profound, words so wonderful, and language so lush I have not read in a long, long time. Was it erotica? Sure. But it was so much more than that! There is a raw beauty to the words, a beauty that I cannot explain with my limited vocabulary, so I shall give you a taste of the wondrous gift that is House of Incest.
"The night surrounded me, a photograph unglued from its frame. The lining of a coat ripped open like the two shells of an oyster. The day and night unglued, and I falling in between not knowing on which layer I was resting, whether it was the cold grey upper leaf of dawn, or the dark layer of night."
A love so powerful, between the narrator and Sabina, a woman described so magnificently, you cannot help but be intrigued by. A tale of love so deep, so profound, and so wonderfully raw that you cannot help but immerse yourself in. A loss so deep, a heart shattered, a woman separated from what was the reflection of herself.
"And she and I, we recognized each other; I her face and she my legend.
"Our faces are soldered together by soft hair, soldered together, showing two profiles of the same soul. Even when I passed through a room like a breath, I made others uneasy and they knew I had passed. This is the book you wrote, and you are the woman I am."
"If Sabina were now a memory; if I should sit here and she should never come again! If I only imagined her one night because the drug made fine incisions and arranged the layers of my body on Persian silk hammocks, tipped with cotton each fine nerve and sent the radium arrows of fantasy through the flesh…"
I mentioned in one of my previous reviews that I'd read perhaps the most eloquently written orgasm ever, well, Mr. Gaiman, I'm sorry to snatch your crown, but this book gets that distinction.
"Around my pulse she put a flat steel bracelet and my pulse beat as she willed, losing its human cadence, thumping like a savage in orgiastic frenzy. The lamentations of flutes, the double chant of wind through our slender bones, the cracking of our bones distantly remembered when on beds of down the worship we inspire turned to lust."
Bear in mind though, that incest isn't always as crude as interbreeding, or even forbidden love; incest is when you are passionately and utterly in love with someone who reflects everything that you are.
"If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other, if only I could save you all from yourselves, said the modern Christ."
I will leave you with this gem, because this book is art that has to be felt, these are words that have to be savoured, and a mere mortal like me can never do justice to something as great as this.
"Yet we knew that beyond the house of incest there was daylight, and none of us could walk towards it."
Fatty has done a much better job at reviewing this book than I have. Find her review here
January 25, 2016
Sybaritic porn!
Impromptu buddy read with the lovely Anuradha! Read her review here.
Erotica is too watery a word to describe what Anaïs Nin has encompassed within these short 72 pages. The prose is swollen and ripe with meaning. You could cup it in your palm and feed on it as if it were a succulent mango.
I feel like an asshole for saying that the novel has brilliant imagery, because oh God, it is so, so much more. It involves all of your senses. In my mind’s eye, I could see two women, Sabina and the narrator strolling scores of leagues under the ocean, moving in liquid silk, a continuum of blue. I could feel woman flesh, pliant and supple and oh so soft. I could hear the synchronous heaving of the water, fluttering like a muslin curtain in the breeze.
And I was aroused while reading the book. Not just because it’s erotica (fucking duh) but also because of luscious prose which practically begs you to lap it up. I don’t know why I waited so long to read Nin; she’s a font of sensuality, and I have always been a sucker for good prose and books which explore the female sexuality in a tasteful manner.
Jamie Lannister might be disappointed, though because House of Incest doesn't allude to incest; not in the literal sense at least. Incest here describes a selfish love where one can appreciate in another only that which is similar to oneself. A self-serving love of sorts, if you will.
Impromptu buddy read with the lovely Anuradha! Read her review here.
“Those who write know the process. I thought of it as I was spitting out my heart.”
Erotica is too watery a word to describe what Anaïs Nin has encompassed within these short 72 pages. The prose is swollen and ripe with meaning. You could cup it in your palm and feed on it as if it were a succulent mango.
“The leaf fall of her words, the stained glass hues of her moods, the rust in her voice, the smoke in her mouth, her breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror.”
I feel like an asshole for saying that the novel has brilliant imagery, because oh God, it is so, so much more. It involves all of your senses. In my mind’s eye, I could see two women, Sabina and the narrator strolling scores of leagues under the ocean, moving in liquid silk, a continuum of blue. I could feel woman flesh, pliant and supple and oh so soft. I could hear the synchronous heaving of the water, fluttering like a muslin curtain in the breeze.
“She was spreading herself like the night over the universe and found no god to lie with.”
And I was aroused while reading the book. Not just because it’s erotica (fucking duh) but also because of luscious prose which practically begs you to lap it up. I don’t know why I waited so long to read Nin; she’s a font of sensuality, and I have always been a sucker for good prose and books which explore the female sexuality in a tasteful manner.
“I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.”
Jamie Lannister might be disappointed, though because House of Incest doesn't allude to incest; not in the literal sense at least. Incest here describes a selfish love where one can appreciate in another only that which is similar to oneself. A self-serving love of sorts, if you will.
“If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other."
May 2, 2022
I thought this was unreadable, except for the introduction. I wasn't aware this was poetry when I picked it up, because on her wikipedia page it says it's a novel. With very few exceptions, I just don't like non-narrative poetry very much. But even for poety I thought this was pretty bad and rather clumsy and clichéd.
If you want to get a glimpse into what reading this small volume is like, just read some of the glowing reviews, which I find equally obtuse. I thought the photographs were interesting, as was the introduction which told me that no publisher wanted to publish this in 1934. In the end it was self-published with the help of her lover Henry Miller. I just couldn't help thinking maybe there was a reason no one picked it up.
If you want to get a glimpse into what reading this small volume is like, just read some of the glowing reviews, which I find equally obtuse. I thought the photographs were interesting, as was the introduction which told me that no publisher wanted to publish this in 1934. In the end it was self-published with the help of her lover Henry Miller. I just couldn't help thinking maybe there was a reason no one picked it up.
November 5, 2024
“The loved one’s whitest flesh is what the broken glass will cut and the wheel crush. The long howls in the night are howls of death. Night is the collaborator of torturers.”
May 22, 2025
"I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort which I cannot make."
March 13, 2022
Αναΐς Νιν, μια γυναίκα με πάθος, κοχλάζουσα σεξουαλικότητα, εκπέμπουσα τη θηλυκότητά της.
Το σπίτι αιμομιξίας είναι ένα πεζοποιημένο ποίημα που σκιαγραφεί με τη σφραγίδα της Νιν την εσωτερική προσπάθεια ενοποίησης των δύο εαυτών που εσωκλείονται στον καθένα· σαν η σκοτεινή πλευρά του φεγγαριού να προσπαθεί να συναντήσει τη φωτεινή για την ευτυχή στιγμή αυτής της ένωσης, την ολοκλήρωση. Είναι όμως και πέρα από αυτό. Είναι και ο φόβος να ξεφύγουμε από το αιμομικτικό σώμα και μυαλό μας, να βυζαίνουμε το ίδιο μας το γάλα, αντί να στραφούμε αληθινά προς τον άλλον, με κεφαλαίο.
Η Αναΐς Νιν έχει τη δική της ταυτότητα και τρόπο έκφρασης. Η ζωή της και η προσωπικότητά της καθρεφτίζονται στα γραπτά της, μοναδικά γυναικεία, ερωτικά, χαοτικά, ποιητικά.
Το σπίτι αιμομιξίας είναι ένα αισθησιακό αεράκι που περνάει ακατανόητο ανάμεσα από τα στήθη και τα κάνει λίγο να σαλέψουν.
«Δε χωράει κοροϊδία ανάμεσα στις γυναίκες. Η μια πλαγιάζει ειρηνικά πάνω στην άλλη όπως στον ίδιο της τον κόρφο.»
«Να μπορούσαμε μόνο να ξεφύγουμε όλοι από αυτό το σπίτι της αιμομιξίας, όπου αγαπούμε μόνο τους εαυτούς μας στον άλλον, να μπορούσα μόνο να σας έσωζα όλους από τον εαυτό σας, είπε ο σύγχρονος Χριστός.»
«Όλοι κοιτούσαμε τώρα τη χορεύτρια που όρθια στο κέντρο του δωματίου χόρευε το χορό της γυναίκας χωρίς χέρια. Χόρευε σα να ήταν κουφή και δεν μπορούσε να ακολουθήσει το ρυθμό της μουσικής. Χόρευε σαν να μην μπορούσε να ακούσει τον ήχο από τις καστανιέτες της. Ο χορός της ήταν απομονωμένος και αποσυνδεμένος από τη μουσική και από μας κι από το δωμάτιο και από τη ζωή. Οι καστανιέτες ηχούσαν σαν τα βήματα ενός φαντάσματος.
Χόρευε γελώντας κι αναστενάζοντας κι ανασαίνοντας μόνο για τον εαυτό της. Χόρευε τους φόβους της, σταματώντας στη μέση κάθε χορού για να αφουγκραστεί επικρίσεις που εμείς δεν μπορούσαμε να ακούσουμε, ή υποκλινόταν για χειροκροτήματα στα οποία εμείς δεν είχαμε ξεσπάσει. Ήταν απορροφημένη από μια μουσική που εμείς δεν μπορούσαμε να ακούσουμε, κλονισμένη από παραισθήσεις που εμείς δεν μπορούσαμε να αντιληφθούμε.»
Το τελευταίο απόσπασμα προς το τέλος του βιβλίου μου κάρφωσε ένα τραγούδι στο μυαλό. Είναι του Jacques Brel όμως εγώ το προτιμώ από μια γυναίκα, την Barbara. Μιλά για ένα κορίτσι που χορεύει μόνο στην πλατεία. Ο κόσμος ερμητικός, νωχελικός, είναι αδιάφορος μπροστά σε αυτή την εικόνα και κλείνεται, κλείνεται. Δεν είναι ποτέ ικανός να κάνει τη σύζευξη του θαύματος με την πραγματικότητά του. Και ο άνθρωπος μένει να «κλαίει τη μοίρα του», δηλαδή τον θάνατο.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYZ3A...
Το σπίτι αιμομιξίας είναι ένα πεζοποιημένο ποίημα που σκιαγραφεί με τη σφραγίδα της Νιν την εσωτερική προσπάθεια ενοποίησης των δύο εαυτών που εσωκλείονται στον καθένα· σαν η σκοτεινή πλευρά του φεγγαριού να προσπαθεί να συναντήσει τη φωτεινή για την ευτυχή στιγμή αυτής της ένωσης, την ολοκλήρωση. Είναι όμως και πέρα από αυτό. Είναι και ο φόβος να ξεφύγουμε από το αιμομικτικό σώμα και μυαλό μας, να βυζαίνουμε το ίδιο μας το γάλα, αντί να στραφούμε αληθινά προς τον άλλον, με κεφαλαίο.
Η Αναΐς Νιν έχει τη δική της ταυτότητα και τρόπο έκφρασης. Η ζωή της και η προσωπικότητά της καθρεφτίζονται στα γραπτά της, μοναδικά γυναικεία, ερωτικά, χαοτικά, ποιητικά.
Το σπίτι αιμομιξίας είναι ένα αισθησιακό αεράκι που περνάει ακατανόητο ανάμεσα από τα στήθη και τα κάνει λίγο να σαλέψουν.
«Δε χωράει κοροϊδία ανάμεσα στις γυναίκες. Η μια πλαγιάζει ειρηνικά πάνω στην άλλη όπως στον ίδιο της τον κόρφο.»
«Να μπορούσαμε μόνο να ξεφύγουμε όλοι από αυτό το σπίτι της αιμομιξίας, όπου αγαπούμε μόνο τους εαυτούς μας στον άλλον, να μπορούσα μόνο να σας έσωζα όλους από τον εαυτό σας, είπε ο σύγχρονος Χριστός.»
«Όλοι κοιτούσαμε τώρα τη χορεύτρια που όρθια στο κέντρο του δωματίου χόρευε το χορό της γυναίκας χωρίς χέρια. Χόρευε σα να ήταν κουφή και δεν μπορούσε να ακολουθήσει το ρυθμό της μουσικής. Χόρευε σαν να μην μπορούσε να ακούσει τον ήχο από τις καστανιέτες της. Ο χορός της ήταν απομονωμένος και αποσυνδεμένος από τη μουσική και από μας κι από το δωμάτιο και από τη ζωή. Οι καστανιέτες ηχούσαν σαν τα βήματα ενός φαντάσματος.
Χόρευε γελώντας κι αναστενάζοντας κι ανασαίνοντας μόνο για τον εαυτό της. Χόρευε τους φόβους της, σταματώντας στη μέση κάθε χορού για να αφουγκραστεί επικρίσεις που εμείς δεν μπορούσαμε να ακούσουμε, ή υποκλινόταν για χειροκροτήματα στα οποία εμείς δεν είχαμε ξεσπάσει. Ήταν απορροφημένη από μια μουσική που εμείς δεν μπορούσαμε να ακούσουμε, κλονισμένη από παραισθήσεις που εμείς δεν μπορούσαμε να αντιληφθούμε.»
Το τελευταίο απόσπασμα προς το τέλος του βιβλίου μου κάρφωσε ένα τραγούδι στο μυαλό. Είναι του Jacques Brel όμως εγώ το προτιμώ από μια γυναίκα, την Barbara. Μιλά για ένα κορίτσι που χορεύει μόνο στην πλατεία. Ο κόσμος ερμητικός, νωχελικός, είναι αδιάφορος μπροστά σε αυτή την εικόνα και κλείνεται, κλείνεται. Δεν είναι ποτέ ικανός να κάνει τη σύζευξη του θαύματος με την πραγματικότητά του. Και ο άνθρωπος μένει να «κλαίει τη μοίρα του», δηλαδή τον θάνατο.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYZ3A...
December 28, 2016
Το όνειρο της συγχώνευσης των δύο εαυτών, το άγχος αυτής της μόνης ολοκλήρωσης που δεν επιτυγχάνεται, μόνοι να πλέουν σ' έναν υμένα δύσκολα κι αέρινα. Ανάστροφοι, όψεις μπροστινή και πίσω που ποτέ δε συναντώνται κι όμως είναι πάντα σε μια επικοινωνία. Ο κόσμος στα μάτια του εγώ που του δίνουμε και του εγώ που του κρύβουμε. Μια ''διαιρεμένη αγάπη'' όπως γράφει κι η ίδια, ''η αγάπη χωρίς πονηριά'', αρσενική και θηλυκή όψη, όπως κι όσο φαντάζεται το θηλυκό, το αρσενικό και το αρσενικό το θηλυκό. Ο εαυτός που πονά κι ο εαυτός που οργίζεται, ανάμεσα στην έκσταση και στην καθημερινότητα, ως το θάνατο, ''αυτοτρεφούμενοι'' ο ένας απ' τον άλλο. Αέναη αναζήτηση της ταυτόχρονης ματιάς, της συζευγμένης ακοής. Γραφή ονειρική, λυρική κι αδυσώπητη, εκατομμύρια εικόνες πραγματικές και εσωτερικές.
3.5 αστέρια
3.5 αστέρια
June 15, 2016
It was like watching a dream, reading this. Melting in poetry. Swimming in music. If you want to see pure emotion put into words, this book is for you.
April 7, 2019
بيت المحرَّمات أناييس نن
لم استوعب النص/ الرواية ولم أجد نفسي بين سطورها.
لم استوعب النص/ الرواية ولم أجد نفسي بين سطورها.
December 4, 2017
رواية بلا أحداث ، بلا حوار ، مجرد هلوسة
الكتاب ينفع ان نجد فيه اقتباسات جميلة، هذا كل ما في الأمر
الكتاب ينفع ان نجد فيه اقتباسات جميلة، هذا كل ما في الأمر
February 23, 2022
سابینا! در یک کلمه حیرت انگیز! ولی حتی نمیدونم این حیرت انگیز خوبه یا بد! دنیایی از جملات وهم آلود و پیچیده! سه ستاره دادم ولی هنوز نمیدونم چرا! یک بار دیگه باید سر صبر این کتاب رو بخونم و بعد ممکنه پنج ستاره بدم یا یک ستاره! ولی در هر دو حال تبحر نویسنده در نوشتن و عمق اطلاعاتش مشهوده. یه سری به متن کتاب بزنیم با هم:ه
«این کتابی است که تو نوشته ای
و این زن تویی
که من ام»
«من نمیتوانم از هیچ رویداد یا مکانی مطمین باشم، به جز تنهاییام»
«من خسته ترین زن جهان هستم. بیدار که میشوم خسته ام. زندگی به تلاش نیاز دارد که من نمیتوانم بکنم.»
«وقتی نشسته بود در آفتاب و صورتش سایه افتاده بود بر پشت صندلی، سایهاش را بوسیدم. سایهاش را بوسیدم و بوسه لمس نکرد او را، بوسه در هوا گم شد و ذوب شد با سایه. عشق ما به یکدیگر شبیه سایهبوسیای طولانی است، بی امید وقوع»
«دستان من همیشه در ولع در آغوش کشیدنی تنگ بودند. میخواستم نور، باد، خورشید، شب و همهی دنیا را در آغوش بگیرم و نگه دارم. میخواستم نوازش کنم، التیام ببخشم، بجنبانم، آرامش ببخشم، احاطه شوم و احاطه کنم. تحت فشار بودم و آنقدر چیزهای زیادی را در آغوش نگه داشتم که شکستمشان. آنها شکستند و دور شدند از من. آنگاه همه چیز از من دور شد و گریخت. و من محکوم شدم به نگه نداشتن.»
«این کتابی است که تو نوشته ای
و این زن تویی
که من ام»
«من نمیتوانم از هیچ رویداد یا مکانی مطمین باشم، به جز تنهاییام»
«من خسته ترین زن جهان هستم. بیدار که میشوم خسته ام. زندگی به تلاش نیاز دارد که من نمیتوانم بکنم.»
«وقتی نشسته بود در آفتاب و صورتش سایه افتاده بود بر پشت صندلی، سایهاش را بوسیدم. سایهاش را بوسیدم و بوسه لمس نکرد او را، بوسه در هوا گم شد و ذوب شد با سایه. عشق ما به یکدیگر شبیه سایهبوسیای طولانی است، بی امید وقوع»
«دستان من همیشه در ولع در آغوش کشیدنی تنگ بودند. میخواستم نور، باد، خورشید، شب و همهی دنیا را در آغوش بگیرم و نگه دارم. میخواستم نوازش کنم، التیام ببخشم، بجنبانم، آرامش ببخشم، احاطه شوم و احاطه کنم. تحت فشار بودم و آنقدر چیزهای زیادی را در آغوش نگه داشتم که شکستمشان. آنها شکستند و دور شدند از من. آنگاه همه چیز از من دور شد و گریخت. و من محکوم شدم به نگه نداشتن.»
May 27, 2023
به یاد میآورم اولین تولدم را در آب. همهی اطرافم شفافیتی گوگردی دارد و استخوانهایم انگار لاستیکیاند و حرکت میکنند. من تاب میخورم و شناورم، ایستاده بر نوک پنجههایی بی استخوان در حال گوش سپردن به صداهایی دور، به صداهایی ورای شنفتن گوش انسانی، در کار دیدن چیزهایی ورای بینش چشمهای انسانی. من سرشار از خاطرهی ناقوسهای آتلانتیس زاده گشتهام. همیشه در حال گوش دادن به صداهایی از دست رفته، در جست وجوی رنگهایی از دست رفته، برای همیشه ایستاده در آستانه، همچون کسی که خاطرات آشفتهاش کرده و راه میروم با گامهایی شناور. من هوا را با بالههای پهن قاچ خوردهام میشکافم و از میان اتاقهای بی دیوار شناورم
January 8, 2012
تقول أناييس عن روايتها هذه وذلك في تقديمها للكتاب ( لقد شعرتُ بأني أبصق قلبي ! ) بينما تقول المترجمة عنه لما كابدته من عناء أثناء الترجمة بأنه (طلع من عيني ) وذلك بسبب التأويلات المتعددة التي يحتملها كنض مركب , وتقول المترجمة ثمة انفصال غير متصل واتصال غير منفصل يشهدها هذا العمل الروائي التفاصيل ماثلة أمامنا لكنها ليست كذلك !
تبدأ أنا ييس نن الرواية بهذه العبارة ( كانت رؤيتي الأولى للأرض مغشاة بالماء , إنني ذلك العرق من النساء والرجال الذي يرى كل الأشياء عبر هذه الستارة البحرية , عيناي بلون الماء , بعيني حرباء نظرت في وجه العالم المتقلب , وبرؤية مجهولة التسمية نظرت إلى ذاتي التي لم تكتمل
أذكر ولادتي الأولى في الماء
شفافية كبريتية تحيطني من كل جانب
عظامي تتحرك كأنها مطاط
أترنح وأطفو ! )
الرواية تبدو كهلوسات , خيالات , عوّم وطفو , صعود ونزول ,
أحيانا تظهر كحقيقة ولكنها لاتبدو حقيقة أدخلتني عوالم غريبة متناقضة ( إني واقعة في شرك أكاذيبي
وأريد الحقيقة !)
صعب جدا أن أحكي لكم عما تدور الرواية فهي خالية من الأحداث
اللغة فيها مدهشة بل متفردة
وأعتقد أن المترجمة أبلت فيها بلاءا حسنا وبذلت جهدا خارقا
فيها الكثير من المصطلحات الغريبة إلا أن المترجمة تركت لنا في الحاشية معاني هذه الكلمات
تبدأ أنا ييس نن الرواية بهذه العبارة ( كانت رؤيتي الأولى للأرض مغشاة بالماء , إنني ذلك العرق من النساء والرجال الذي يرى كل الأشياء عبر هذه الستارة البحرية , عيناي بلون الماء , بعيني حرباء نظرت في وجه العالم المتقلب , وبرؤية مجهولة التسمية نظرت إلى ذاتي التي لم تكتمل
أذكر ولادتي الأولى في الماء
شفافية كبريتية تحيطني من كل جانب
عظامي تتحرك كأنها مطاط
أترنح وأطفو ! )
الرواية تبدو كهلوسات , خيالات , عوّم وطفو , صعود ونزول ,
أحيانا تظهر كحقيقة ولكنها لاتبدو حقيقة أدخلتني عوالم غريبة متناقضة ( إني واقعة في شرك أكاذيبي
وأريد الحقيقة !)
صعب جدا أن أحكي لكم عما تدور الرواية فهي خالية من الأحداث
اللغة فيها مدهشة بل متفردة
وأعتقد أن المترجمة أبلت فيها بلاءا حسنا وبذلت جهدا خارقا
فيها الكثير من المصطلحات الغريبة إلا أن المترجمة تركت لنا في الحاشية معاني هذه الكلمات
October 9, 2023
آنايس نين تستحق الكثير من الفضل ككاتبة أكثر مما تحصل عليه في وسطنا -النثر في هذا الكتاب دفعني للبكاء. كنت أقرأ هذا وأستمتع بدهشة الأوصاف والإستعارات وسرقتها لي، ثم أدركت فجأة حقيقة أنني كنت أبكي.
أنا لست حتى متأكدة مما سبب هذا بالضبط لأنه ليس ما أسميه بالنبع المعتاد للدموع ولكن كان هناك بعض الغرابة والجمال في كتابة نين التي أثرت فيّ في تلك المقاطع, وأنوي إعادة قرائته لاكتشاف ذلك بهدوء.
**ممتنة كثير لهيك كتب بتصادفني. ممتنة لهداك العالم الشاعري يلي بتنقلك لإله حتى وإنت بتقاوم ما تبتسم هديك الإبتسامة البلهاء ولا الدموع يلي مالها سبب أو يمكن دموع الدهشة.**
28\3\2020
أنا لست حتى متأكدة مما سبب هذا بالضبط لأنه ليس ما أسميه بالنبع المعتاد للدموع ولكن كان هناك بعض الغرابة والجمال في كتابة نين التي أثرت فيّ في تلك المقاطع, وأنوي إعادة قرائته لاكتشاف ذلك بهدوء.
**ممتنة كثير لهيك كتب بتصادفني. ممتنة لهداك العالم الشاعري يلي بتنقلك لإله حتى وإنت بتقاوم ما تبتسم هديك الإبتسامة البلهاء ولا الدموع يلي مالها سبب أو يمكن دموع الدهشة.**
28\3\2020
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March 17, 2019"La casa dell'incesto" è per me così difficile da assorbire che non so nemmeno cosa dire o come giudicarla.
L'edizione è bilingue, cosa che mi ha permesso di leggere le parti più complesse in italiano, quelle più lineari in inglese. Questo piccolo libro contiene una costellazione di riflessioni intime, incubi e pensieri incollati e attorcigliati, simbolismo e surrealismo.
L'edizione è bilingue, cosa che mi ha permesso di leggere le parti più complesse in italiano, quelle più lineari in inglese. Questo piccolo libro contiene una costellazione di riflessioni intime, incubi e pensieri incollati e attorcigliati, simbolismo e surrealismo.
![Henry and June](http://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/1c/65/69/1c6569c780f585ebca07a23dc2b69b48.jpg" alt="" /> This book was controversial for somewhere in the book Nin written veiledly her incestuous relationship with her father but the Incest referred here was the obsession to oneself, a selfish love, a nightmare that she needs to emerge from. “If only we could all escape from this house of incest, where we only love ourselves in the other, if only I could save you all from yourselves”){kind=link}
January 16, 2023
جین، میان نقاشیها خوابم برد، آنجا که میتوانستم بنشینم روزها به ستایش پرترهی تو. عاشق پرترهات شدم، جین. چرا که پرترهات هیچگاه تغییر نمیکند. آنقدر میترسیدم از دیدن تو که پیر میشوی، جین. من توی نامتغیر را دوست میدارم که هیچ گاه دور نمیشوی از من. آرزو داشتم که بمیری تا که هیچ کس نتواند تو را از من دور کند، و من عاشق نقاشی پرترهی تو باشم که تو درش ابدی به نظر میآیی.
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