Reunited: The Correspondence of Anais and Joaquin Nin, 1933-1940

by Anaïs Nin

August 30, 1933: Louveciennes. Evening. I am sad, sad. I cannot bear leaving him. I am obsessed with him—only him. I want nothing else, nobody else. He fills my life, my thoughts, my blood. I love him, I love him with wonder, with a turmoil of body and soul. He is alone, there. He walks constantly before my mind. He walks erect and supple, royal and gentle, and my yearning hurts, hurts me… I love him, oh, I love him deliriously…it hurts. I hurt not to be near him. I was happy there…just to see him, hear him. I haven’t loved him enough. He has come upon me like a great mystery. I have been dazed…awed… Before Papa, I feel that life is being ordered, arranged, criticized, judged, understood. Before Henry, I feel that life is being exploded, unleashed, undammed… I was Papa to Henry; I gave him consciousness. June gave Henry tornadoes and inundations. Henry gives me what June gave him. I need the drama with Henry. The turbulence. Papa’s passion for criticism paralyzes me. I feel like a clay being poured into a mould. I feel the tightness of the mould. I feel the beauty of the Greek vase’s contour. But I feel walls. And just as René’s walls “evolved,” serenity drove me to insane rebellions; the walls of Papa’s “measure” terrify me. Fetters. What a horror of walls, of all confinement, of moulds. When I was telling Papa about my first experience as an artist’s model in New York, with warm colors, and while I was describing the Watteau costume, he interrupted me: “Why do you say ‘W...