Fire

Bath of electricity. The cellophane symphony

I have never known such a joy. I live continuously in fantasy, yet in human reality too. My instincts are at peace. No control, revolt, distaste, or conflict. And my imagination is free. I am myself. His faith in me gives me wings.

I’ve found the one I can play with, play really, play the woman, play everything in my head or body with a blood rhythm.

Very slowly, with hands, tongues, mouths, we unwrapped and untied ourselves, laying open gifts. Gave birth to each other again, as separate bodies who enjoy collision.

From 1931, when she began her first love affair with Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin engaged in a lifelong search for the perfect love and confided this search to her diary. (The discipline of daily writing in her diary since 1914 had given Anaïs the uncanny ability to describe her deepest emotions at “white heat” immediately following an event.)

As soon as I kiss him I know that I love him with a blind instinct beyond all reason, with all his defects

He says I am so honest in my feelings. The lies are only in the head. The feelings are in the diary. I didn’t even go into the lies much in the diary. It was the feeling that was important to me. There I never lie. I lie only for others

“Child of nature. You belong to the night. I have to give you up to the night.”

He awakens early, at six. He cannot sleep for the wonder, whereas the wonder makes me more and more human, more hungry, more sleepy, more natural. He awakens at six and comes to my room. I love that moment when he comes into my arms

he in my velvet kimono, I in his hat and cigar