I’ve had this infamous volume Incest: From a Journal of Love: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, for years; I honestly just bought it because of the provocative title and because I had heard of her but was unfamiliar with her or her work (sub-rec: finally reading the books you actually own that have been sitting on the shelf).
The concept of the narratives we create about our own lives has been on my mind lately as I write a narrative of my own; I was reminded of Nin when thinking about what Gore Vidal wrote (and didn’t write!) about her in his memoir, Palimpsest.
After reading interviews with her + and articles about her life and her approach to publishing her journals (linked)—and seeing myself in her ways of coping, processing, and engaging with the world—I’m very excited to interrupt my own languorous navel-gazing reflection during my protracted period of post-holiday down-time and delve into hers/become too intimately acquainted with her delusional girl persona. The title pretty much exactly shows what to expect here, so it’s probably going to be an uncomfortable, gut-wrenching and painful read, to say the least, but it should be illuminating… pray for my stomach and my heart but it’s a great place to start
