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by
Anaïs Nin
Started reading
January 7, 2023
Incest: From “A Journal of Love” continues the story of Anaïs Nin that was begun in Henry and June (1986). Covering the turbulent period of Anaïs’s life from October 1932 to November 1934, it complements the first volume (1966) of The Diary of Anaïs Nin, from which, for personal and legal reasons, Anaïs excluded so much of her love life. Now that virtually all of the people referred to in Incest have died, there is no cause to hold back on publishing the diary as Anaïs wished: in unexpurgated form. The material has been edited to produce a book of readable length, but nothing germane to
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Sometimes it hurts me that there should be less feeling and more intelligence.
The acknowledgment of discrepancies, paradoxes, injustices is what makes me old. I was so old last night that I am tired today. I feel weak and broken. When I stop running and bleeding, I am sitting on a mountain of journals, also an overflow of the same cursed love.
(having realized that nobody will ever love me in that overabundant, overexpressive, overthoughtful, overhuman way I love people),
swimming in rolling flesh and moisture which gives that supreme silkiness, a sensation which is the climax of all one experiences when naked in water, when touching silk, when vibrating in orgasm. It is that nakedness, that darkness, that blinding flesh-and-moisture feeling which is sex—from which I rise as from the most magic bath. And there is no end—for days I am still living in flesh-perception; for days life doesn’t go to my head, it touches and surrounds me exactly as he touches me; life is a continuation of his caresses. He leaves the imprint of his flesh-visit on my skin, in my womb,
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At the same time, like a moving picture played one reel upon another, superimposed, I see all the different faces of you, infinitely—your variety, our changeableness of roles—and yet I feel you focused there—illusion and reality together, for in reality I feel that I know you well, intimately—that I am not mistaken . . .”
I tell him about my preoccupation with reality, how I feel that I miss it always. Either dreams or sensuality. No intermediate life. Dreams or sensuality. As in my writing. The overtones only, or the undertones.
And all because I had not the courage to say, “I will love Henry always—and I can love other men, too. But Henry remains the center of my life. Do you accept sharing me?”
A passive man’s way of possessing a woman is to keep her away from life.
The only person I do not lie to is my journal. Yet out of affection even for my journal I sometimes lie by omissions. There are still so many omissions!
For him I have all the courage and all the wisdom. Yesterday he repeated, “You may think June got the most from me—but it is you who have—you have got things from me June always wanted and never got.” And I know it is true.
I had needed a proof of the closeness, because most of the time we live out such an independent, courageous, mature relation.
Lawrence was right when he wrote, “Only an unsatisfied woman needs luxuries. A satisfied woman can sleep on the floor.”
I object, “Don’t pamper me, because I am satisfied.” And it is true, I have been very happy in my worn-out shoes.
I remembered vividly how often I have returned to the old problem: the journal, the art, what to include, what to tell, how to tell it. Bradley says, “Leave the journal aside. Just write as you talk to me.”
I had wanted the journal to die with the confession of a love I could not make. I had wanted at least my incestuous love to remain unwritten. I had promised Father utter secrecy.
I need air, I need liberation. I must achieve liberation again, and this time alone. No one can teach me to enjoy my tragic incest-love, to shed the last chains of guilt. And my journal keeps me from insanity. I need this order. I am more ill than ever, more neurotic, and I must keep my balance.
Hugo and I made the mistake of idealists. We felt we had found something ideal and we isolated ourselves. Against the world. All alone, the two of us, for years. And it was bad for us. I, being the greedy one, I began to demand, to demand more, to devour Hugo. Since I leave him alone, and am with more people, we are all happier.
He said, “What a wonderful end to my amorous career, if I could just devote myself to you. If I had married a woman like you who had everything, I would have been faithful.” I realize I don’t believe anymore in the ideal of faithfulness. It is immature. I expect him to continue his life, as I have continued mine. All this incestuous love is still veiled and a dream. I want to realize it, and it eludes me.
Amazing discovery. Astrology. Astrology reveals that [Father’s] moon is in my sun, the strongest attraction between man and woman.
Cloud-sifting moods. Pity. Love. Rebellion in me against Henry’s love of dirt. Remembering how often I have opened my legs wondering if he was bringing me syphilis. Resentment against his irrationalities. I desire to fight him. Then remorse for my love of Father—and devotion.
I even tell Henry, “I talk a great deal about my Father, but he does not mean as much to me as you do.” Because I imagine people need these lies, mensonges vitaux! Truth is coarse and unfructifying. I tell Allendy, “I have just arrived. When can I see you?” As if he were the first I called, and I have already slept with Henry.
Father, spare me those lies that we have to tell to others weaker than we, that deformation of our nature to create an illusion for the others. Let’s be brave—you yourself were the first to ask that of me. Let’s keep jealousy out of our love!
He accused me of “literary” living, of living romantically. Why not live literarily—why not, when it is an improvement on the reality?
One cowardly trait. I feel scorn for myself when I try to justify my changes of feelings by bringing to relief the defects or shortcomings of others, to excuse myself. Coward. Coward.
Henry said something so very wise today: “Instead of accentuating the idealism and need of illusion in others, why don’t you help them by not deluding them but by teaching them to expect less?”
A page in the journal is more moving than my pages of artistic creation. So from time to time I feel like releasing it—anonymously—just as it is, terribly human, simple and direct, as a superhuman effort to balance the lies in the fairy stories that I thought I should give the world. It was wrong to bring us up on fairy stories. I have tried to make them come true for others, and that’s dangerous. One loses one’s own soul.
Because of this I watch other people’s faces for signs of this jealousy. On Allendy’s face—a quiver of the voice—the slightest sign of disturbance—and I get wary. I make a detour. This awareness causes havoc with my honesty. Allendy tells me, “I am free Thursday. Let us go out together—just for tea, at least, since you don’t want anything else.” And Artaud was coming Thursday. I know what feeling that would give Allendy—and so I lie. And one lie creates another.
I am overflowing. I talk too much. I love too much. I want to work. I like the confusion in my head because a whirlpool of feelings confuses my mind and destroys its control. I want to live by my feelings. Artistically and humanly, they are of better quality than my analysis. Do not comment. Analysis is death.
Henry, my love, the wanderer, the artist, the faithless one who has loved me so well. Believe me, nothing has changed in me toward you except my courage. I cannot walk with one love ever. My head is strong, my head, but to walk, to walk into love I need miracles, the miracles of excess, and white heat, and two-ness!
Otherwise I’d fall into his clutches.” This means: Otherwise Lowenfels would know I love you and he could torment me. This way I appear not to care. Although I understand this, I want to make Henry suffer a little.
