**Full disclosure: I wrote this post forever ago for my old blog but my AC has been out since Thursday, and I think the part of my brain that is capable of stringing together coherent sentences melted and ran out of my ears at some point yesterday afternoon.**
Is there a book you could read over and over again? One of those books, for me, is White Oleander by Janet Fitch. One of the main characters, Ingrid, is a poet and often "prescribes" books to her daughter Astrid to help her cope with her life as a teenager. One of the authors she brought up was Anaïs Nin, and was immediately curious. The only thing I'd ever heard about her was that she wrote dirty books. Why would a mother tell her teenage daughter to read smut? I had to know!
While Ms. Nin did write a few volumes of erotica, her published diaries are where the really juicy stuff is hidden. (I swear I'm not a perv! Maybe a little bit of a perv. But a harmless perv.)
A few years ago, I picked up a copy of Anaïs Nin's journal Henry and June and fell instantly in love. The writing is both poetic and raw and her journaling draws you not only into her life but into her brilliant mind.
I'm going to assume Anaïs never fell victim to a boring day in her life. Not only was she a writer, but also a dancer, an analyst, a mistress, and a muse. A combination of lover and muse for the author Henry Miller. She was married to a somewhat reserved banker, but desired her independence during a time when women's desires and dreams were often put on the back burner for household duties and child rearing. She wanted to venture out to the dive bars, the whorehouses. To experience life on the fringes while knowing she always had a comfortable house with servants and hot food and clean sheets to scurry back to when shit got real. She was the queen of slumming it.
I am into my fourth diary now, and I've found them all hard to put down. While I don't agree with her extramarital activities, her story-telling and poetic language captivate me. She lived life fully, but she also observed and recorded every tiny detail. I think writers, with their observation skills and seemingly photographic memories, really know how to exist in the present moment.
I only wish I could write/blog/journal half as beautifully as Anaïs did. Or travel the world. Or be able to pick the brains of sculptors, poets, musicians, actors...
But a little vicarious living never hurt anyone.
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