I am always looking to Anaïs Nin and her work with a sense of yearning. A need to understand what it seems she is educated on. I believe often she has the answers to my questions on men, of love, of soul infidelity, and my carnal Sapphic desires. but like a tease, she always leaves me without solution, without the answers to my questions, without end. Always wanting more from her, to unravel her mystery and in turn understand my own travesties. I have heard on many occasions, who is Anaïs Nin really? Her story changes, is even fictionalized at times. But to that, there is an answer. She exists within every word she has written, a piece of her purveyed. An endless and ongoing enigma. She is women on all accounts, a mass herd of them in one plentiful soul, who soaked up all her female lovers into her own.
In the same way many writers do, it seems Anaïs writes also to convince herself of her words. She writes to teach herself lessons she deep down knows, she wants to remember, to record life as it is happening. It is like unconsciously she wishes to guide women, through her experience, as to the truths of love and other drugs. This is reflected in the book Cities of the Interior which is a compilation of her continuous novel; Ladders to Fire, Children of the Albatross, The Four-chambered Heart, A Spy in the House of love, and Seduction of the Minotaur, where real people in her life are reflected as fictional characters and romanticized to her narrative. She also fictionalizes things she has endured, heard, believed.
There are times I've read Anaïs and cried.
There are times I've read Anaïs and she spoke aloud my thoughts; answered my questions just to prompt more.
I know i'm not the only woman in love with Anaïs.
That does not make me feel any less special. I feel a connection with fellow Nin savants, like we know a secret kept between us. We all feel her words deep in our soul, like they are our own struggles spoken aloud. It is the most intimate kind of relationship.