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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
59 of 65 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
An Amazing Document,
By K. "bookkitten" (CA United States) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Incest: From a Journal of Love : The Unexpurgated Diary of Anias Nin, 1932-1934 (Hardcover)
For the love of ... Are we reviewing the book, or are we critiquing the woman? We're reviewing the book, right? So why so much moralistic brouhaha about the writer's behavior? When Van Gogh's work is auctioned off for a gazillion dollars, is the fact that he was mentally ill of great concern, or is there more interest in his artistry, his skill, and his innovative and altogether original treatment of a mundane subject? Yes, Anais Nin describes doing some things that we find disturbing. (Regarding the abortion, back in those days when very little was known about the fetus, late-term abortions were common and there was no moral dilemma. We simply can't judge her by our modern understanding. And as for her bizarre relationship with her father, one again would need to understand the context, the extremely complicated history from which the behavior arose.) So enough of the judgments of Anais Nin's descriptions of her own behavior (does she get points for honesty?) and take a look at the writing. I simply defy anyone to describe such strange events with as much brilliance and poetry. Nin's writing is like a ballet on ice; it is stylized, feminine, passionate and strict at the same time. Who else could divulge the darkest secrets with the delicacy of a geisha serving tea? Some day Nin's achievement will be recognized by the literary establishment. In the meantime, if you don't count yourself among the squeamish, judgmental, or easily disturbed, buy this book.
23 of 24 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Beautiful,
By Dee Lalley "Dee" (Cincinnati, OH USA) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Incest: From "A Journal of Love" -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaďs Nin (1932-1934) (Paperback)
You're generally in one of two camps when it comes to Nin. It was true when she was alive and it seems to be just as true now that she's dead. If you're in the camp that loves her, you will love this diary. Her writing is beautiful. I've read the biographies of her and I know that she had a tendency to embellish the facts or even to outright lie, but that doesn't destroy my enjoyment of her diaries in the least. If the pages contained in her journals are not an exact representation of the reality she was living (is there such a thing?) they are a representation of her life the way she wanted to see it...and really, isn't that what being an artist is all about? She gives a very clear image of a world that is completely alien to most of us; a world that many of us might like to find but have never had the courage to seek. She writes of a world full of artists and lovers and intellectual friends...a world full of life and eaters of life. It's magnificent. Truth or fiction, it doesn't matter to me.
20 of 21 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
But yet, you kept reading ...,
By
This review is from: Incest: From "A Journal of Love" -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaďs Nin (1932-1934) (Paperback)
Regardless of the subject matter, Anais Nin is an incredible writer and her way with words was probably part of her charm in life. Her ability to describe even the most perverted behavior as something transcendent and meaningful probably was the ability that kept her circle of lovers around her. She could make the most petty behavior seem poetic by her descriptions and that's seductive to someone caught in a relationship with such a person. I read the journals of Anais Nin not because I identify with her, or even sympathise with her, but because I enjoy the way she makes every small event of her life seem like something elevated and rife with meaning. I am fascinated by the lurid details and by the paradox of all her affairs, were these men sexually abusing her, or was she using them? It seems, somehow both. And there's a little bit of teenage angst still lurking inside me that was never cured. The part of me that still listens to the Smiths and loves Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton adores Anais Nin and her glorious tragic screwed-upness.
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