The pages fly under my fingers, before my eyes and the end is coming closer. The initial awe and strict interpretation of Lawrence slowly vanishes and Nin, by the end of the study, seeks quite vehemently to defend the object of her study even when his flaws escape between her fingers. As reader, as someone who hasn't yet experienced Lawrence first hand, inspite of the richness in well selected quotes, he reveals in her words as a wobbly character, prone to mood swings and whimsy outbursts. A deep immaturity unveils, further sinking in, reinforcing previous ideas one forms of him.
As the book nears its end, and Nin tangles in the throws of Lawrence's sea of moods, where the reafirmation and revalidation of self appear constantly in different characters marked by the lack of strenght, or hold down to a life guiding principle. For Nin it is the trademark of the poet, the seal of the creator, all of them beautiful words and inspired excuses for what seems to me the escape of a man who can't accept himself, no matter how hard, so vehemently he tries to do so. And so, wrapping in the cloak of self-proclaimed individuality all oddness is excused, purposeful ignorance of the social reaction is pulled up, to hide behind such a screen the wails and tantrums of a self tormented both by its very unspeakable nature and the condemning of the society upon it, whether happening or the feared reaction if the truth where to be known. Nin runs up front, fending her submissive femininity in the fashion proper of old chavalry stories, where the hurt brave's life is spared thanks to the sacrifice and humble pleading of the fair maiden.
Nin elevates him high to the sphere of worldly gods, the ultimate creators, the purest of men, those whose fertile, unique skills match those of the gods, and therefore shall always be above normal men. Her worship is absolute, and thus she lays her words at his feet, serve him humbly explaining to the word how his flaws are divine features, his immaturity the needed brand of those infused with the power of artistic creation. In the non-understanding of his throws lies the key to his genius, in the moves that betray ridicule to the normal man, hides the greatness of his outworldly, avant-guard, gifted vision.
Having read her journal before, suddenly I face the same defending line she took with June Miller. In the blindness of the flaws, she insists in a distorted vision of the person beyond the person, where the blatant and factual weakness of nature superposes in the surrealist plane the unveiling of such high features, they must, by rule be incomprehensive to the average of men, and seem, by the power of simplicity, envy, obscurity of mind or any other cloaking device, a wicked, abhorrent, unbearable flaw. As with June, the unstability of a self that refuses to see itself in the eye, that runs around its own core, is worshiped as a sign of deep artistic inclination.
Anais Nin was an abused child, beaten and submitted to emotional harm. It is possible her mind had soaked in the idea that there is something intrinsically unspeakable about herself, something horrid that should be kept at bay by punishment. This could have turned her away from herself. Uncomfortable by being forced to live in another skin, an imposed or self imposed one, but deeply afraid of assuming her own. In her words, both June and Lawrence seem to share this feature. Nor June, nor Lawrence settle with themselves, and run around, awkward and playing roles, façades like plaster masks that do not fit theirselves. And uncomfortable in the not fitting shoe they are forced into, they turn against others, torment those they can torment, play the victim when the situation gets out of control and blame the world for everything, from the rain to the war to their headache.
This book reveals Nin pathological, reveals her needs, and large chunks of herself, as also things that are not intended to be revealed as pety and obscure get revealed of the object of her abject worship.
At the same time her style continuous flowing and perfect, bigger than herself, absorbent, enveloping, grasping. Nin becomes the tool of her gift, the peripheral attachment of her style, the devise to move pen over paper, digits over keys, to get the message through. Yes, she is broken, yes, she is flawed, but still, the things her eyes see, even past her hability to process and reinterpret into her own world are astonishing.
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