Anaïs Nin Essay - Nin, Anaïs (Vol. 11)

Nin, Anaïs (Vol. 11)

Introduction

Nin, Anaïs 1903–1977

Nin, an American novelist, short story writer, and critic, is best known for her diaries. Living in Paris in the 1930s, she became part of several artistic and intellectual circles, where she became acquainted with Antonin Artaud, Henry Miller, and Otto Rank. Her study with Rank, a prominent psychoanalyst, is reflected in both her fiction and her diary, where she explores the power of the subconscious in imagery drawn from dream and myth. (See also CLC, Vols. 1, 4, 8, and Contemporary Authors, Vols. 13-16, rev. ed.; obituary, Vols. 69-72.)

Duane Schneider

The intriguing and engaging narrator of Anaïs Nin's Diary has surely earned for herself a place among the great literary creations to appear in this century. Purporting to reveal aspects of her life (and the growth of her sensibilities) in selections from an autobiographical journal, the narrator knows and relates the truth about herself…. The creation and development of this narrator unquestionably attest to the power and skill of Nin, the author, and it is therefore unfortunate that many readers have failed to appreciate the difference between the two. (p. 9)

[The] values and techniques [Nin] employed in her fiction are finely honed for use in the Diary. Psychological authenticity, which lies at the heart of all of Nin's work, is effected in the Diary as in the fiction through the manipulation of symbolism, dreams, and other dramatic devices which generate a sense of immediacy. Similarly, the Diary reveals a fine sense of timing, character development and selection, which Nin initiated and Gunther Stuhlmann aided; as in her fiction, but frequently with sustained concreteness, characters appear and reappear in multiple contexts, while typical of both the fiction and the Diary is the presence of a chief female character who is omnipresent—as a participant or as an observer—and whose development is presented through multiple exposures in a variety of contexts, through her own self-analysis, or through the responses she evokes from the satellite characters around her.

There is, however, one important difference between the material as it is presented in the fiction and as it is presented in the Diary; namely, the presence within the latter of a central consciousness—that of the persona—through whose mind all the characters and incidents are filtered, interpreted, and colored. Every detail she affords us tells us perhaps as much about herself as it does about the person or incident described. In contrast to the situation in Nin's fiction, therefore, narration in the Diary becomes simultaneously self-characterization. Under the appearance of a journal that records real-life situations and individuals, there have, in fact, been gathered a set of compelling "actors" in accordance with the literary principle of point of view. The result is neither fiction in the traditional sense nor diary in the conventional sense but rather something of a new art form—the journal-novel.

It is not difficult to describe the characteristics of the persona in each volume of the Diary; accounting for the narrator's development and the changes in her characterization, however, may be more problematic…. The thematic truth that lies at the heart of the Diary … is inextricably connected with Nin's conception of the narrator who is compelled to tell her tale, and who in so doing becomes both the subject (teller) and the object (told about). (pp. 10-11).

[One] of the great irritations to some is that the Diary leaves out, it seems, as much as it contains. As in some of Nin's novels, a portion of the context is missing or is deleted. But the enjoyment, the wonder, the pleasure, and the surprize of the persona all seem to be present, and the richness of life is felt even if it is not described in detail. The scenes between the narrator and June [from Volume 1 (1931–1934)] are masterpieces of literary control; Nin's sensitivity to diction here is at its most delicate and discerning. None of Nin's works of fiction has a greater unity than this progress of the Diary's heroine in her first public appearance…. The persona is depicted as a questor who moves steadily toward levels of self-realization, and in Volume I it is as though each character she encounters somehow contributes to this quest.

However, the strength of Volume I is also its weakness. The character of the persona seems incomplete, unrounded—perhaps unreal. Certainly the narrator is relatively flawless. We soon realize, in fact, that she is depicted as the one who is needed, a kind of savior, and not merely one who needs…. This motif, which is developed even more clearly in Volume II, begins to emerge when the diarist observes that she always loses her "guide halfway up the mountain, and he becomes [her] child."… (p. 12)

Many motifs, themes and characters reappear in [Volume II] which covers the years 1934–1939. But because the advent of war dominates the scene here, this volume has both a political and social context that is lacking in Volume I. During these years the narrator develops significantly as a writer and forms close and important literary associations…. (pp. 12-13)

Simultaneously, the narrator cultivates her image as nurturer and protectress—a pattern of self-characterization that echoes Volume I. She continues to be introspective….

And yet, the narrator herself seems more incomplete than ever, and Anaïs Nin, the author, is not unmasked, nor we feel, was meant to be. The persona is busily engaged with the rites...

(The entire section is 2087 words.)

J. S. Atherton

A maternal figure at times, [Nin] encouraged, for example, both Lawrence Durrell and Henry Miller; especially Miller, whom she supported financially for some time as well as encouraging his writing. Many other young writers were helped by her in various ways at various times. Although a wealthy woman by Parisian left-bank standards, she sometimes found herself committed to spending more than she had available. It was on such an occasion that the stories in Delta of Venus were written.

The request was made by a wealthy old man to Henry Miller for some stories which "cut out the poetry and concentrated on sex". Telling Anaïs Nin about this, Miller explained that writing such stories would be against his integrity and asked her to write them for him. What about her own integrity, she asked; but Miller did not appear to think that this mattered, so—as the money was urgently needed to pay the rents of her various pensioners—she did so. The style of the stories is so different from that of Nin's normal work that I suspect Miller to have taken a large share in the actual writing, but no one else has ever suggested anything of the kind….

Although most of the stories [in Delta of Venus] are just frankly aimed at sexual titillation, there is occasionally a seasoning of dry humour evident. The first story contains an account of a beautifully made rubber woman, with each aperture serviceable, which some sailors found the perfect mistress but which gave them all syphilis. But even the unnamed person who paid for the stories in the first place only read one at a time at intervals; read continuously, as they must be by a reviewer, they become boring.

J. S. Atherton, "The Maternal Instinct," in The Times Literary Supplement (© Times Newspapers Ltd. (London), 1978; reproduced from The Times Literary Supplement by permission), July 7, 1978, p. 756.

Wallace Fowlie

"Linotte" is the name [Anaïs Nin] gives herself as she signs letters to her father, Joaquin Nin, the Spanish composer and pianist. It is an old-world term for "finch" or linnet, and traditionally in French it means "scatterbrain," a girl with foolish ideas. Often at the end of a passage, especially one full of conflicts, contradictions and impossible dreams, Anaïs characterizes herself in that way. If she is writing directly to her father, she habitually ends by apologizing for her ideas of a "linotte."

The diary is almost a continuous letter to her father…. The purpose in writing these daily episodes in the letters is to reconvert the distant father to his family, to urge him to rejoin them in New York, and to stress her own longing for him….

This early diary anticipates the reconciliation later in France (told in Volume I of the "Diary"), and the passionate love she established at that time with her father. It will be obvious to most readers that this paternal relationship is the basis of Anaïs Nin's attitude toward men and toward love….

Young Anaïs herself is fascinated by the role of the diary in her life, as she feels herself torn between two worlds: the one in which she lives day by day, and that same world as it is transmuted into her diary sentences. Already she is aware of what the act of writing means for her. This act she will call in the first volume of the "Diary" her "drug,"...

(The entire section is 532 words.)

Nancy Pepper

Anaïs Nin's diary served as her mirror, her confidant, the only place where she was truly herself and scrupulously honest about even unpleasant truths. For those who are fascinated by every word of this ultimate diarist, [Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–1920] will no doubt prove an invaluable addition to the adult works, but for those less enamored, it can make uncomfortable reading. Perhaps it should have been left a mirror to oblivion, for its pages read like an unwitting exposure of a young girl's infatuation with extremes of feeling and with her own self-image as a suffering "dreamer"….

The mature writer's control and power are rarely in evidence; here the emphasis is on...

(The entire section is 190 words.)

Carla Waldemar

By nature sensitive, introspective, and emotional, this intense and gifted young girl pours out [in Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin 1914–1920] the manic-depressive roller-coastering of adolescence in her daily tryst with her one friend, her diary. Arriving in an unfamiliar country, abandoned by the father whose love she craves, she tosses her crystalline, childlike impressions into a whirlpool of blossoming adulthood….

This amazingly precocious diary offers clearsighted evaluations of herself, already the analyst of dreams and feelings we encounter in her adult journals….

It's also a portrait of the developing young writer. She justifies the attraction her...

(The entire section is 217 words.)