Anais Nin was a remarkable writer, brutally honest and uncompromising in her portrayals of life and love. I first encountered her during my existential phase in the mid-80s through her novel A Spy In The House of Love. I was delighted and moved today to be reminded of her through a brief article from DreamThisDay.
An excerpt from A Spy In The House of Love:
"She understood why it angered her when people spoke of life as One life. She became certain of myriad lives within herself. Her sense of time altered. She felt acutely and with grief the shortness of life's physical span. Death was terrifyingly near and the journey towards it vertiginous; but only when she considered the lives around her, accepting their time tables, clocks, measurements. Everything they did constricted time. They spoke of one birth, one childhood, one adolescence, one romance, one marriage, one maturity, one aging, one death and then transmitted the monotonous cycle to their children.
"But Sabina, activated by the moon rays, felt germinating in her the power to extend time in the ramifications of a myriad of lives and loves, to expand the journey to infinity, taking immense and luxurious detours as the courtesan depositor of multiple desires. The seeds of many lives, places, of many women in herself were fecundated by the moon rays because they came from that limitless night life which we usually perceive only in our dreams, containing roots reaching for all the magnificence of the past, transmitting the rich sediments into the present, projecting them into the future."
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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings - AN
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There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. - AN
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