Archive for the Anais Nin Category

A high moment listening…

Posted in Anais Nin with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 30, 2015 by Mj Rains

Yma+Sumac+PNGA high moment listening to Ima Sumac. The voice has all the richness, beauty, and range of a mythical woman. It does not seem humanly credible. She sings like a siren, a bird, an angel, some seductive chant never heard before, high and low, fragile and strong. With all that, she has the exotic beauty of a legendary figure. I could imagine her in Peru, but not accept that she is married to a composer and now sings his Hollywood-type arrangements in a night club.

~  Anais Nin, Fall 1952, The Diary of Anais Nin Volume 5

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I only believe in intoxication…

Posted in Anais Nin, Photography with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 15, 2013 by Mj Rains

Kornelka_by_muszkaI only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary  life shackles me,
I escape, one way or another.  No more walls.
~Anais Nin

eyes_wide_shut_by_muszka

a_perfect_day_elise_by_muszkaImages by artist Sonia Szostak

Posted in Anais Nin with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 15, 2011 by Mj Rains

There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life,  an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel,  a book for each person.  –  Anais Nin   {image via cosmic dust}

Character, atmosphere…

Posted in Anais Nin with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 3, 2011 by Mj Rains

 

First a quote:

“It isn’t good to stay too long in the polluted air of history.”- Anais Nin

I love this excerpt from The Diary of Anais Nin, Volume Three.

It is taken from text written in April, 1940, when she lived in New York.

“I rented a furnished apartment on Washington Square West.  The Village has character, atmosphere.  The houses are old, the shops small.  In the Square old Italians play chess on stone tables.  There are trees, patios, back yards.  It has a history.  The university was built by the Dutch.  I love the ginko trees, the studio windows, the small theaters, Blecker Street with its vegetable carts, fish shops, cheese shops.  It is human.  People stroll about.  They sit in the park.

My bed is convertible, which means it vanishes into a closet.  I am always afraid it will do this while I am asleep.”

 

Caresse Crosby…a part of Anais Nin’s diary…

Posted in Anais Nin with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2011 by Mj Rains

Party at Kay de San Faustino’s and Yves Tanguy’s.  Caresse Crosby enters with the bouyancy of a powder puff, a caressing voice (was this how she gained the nickname of Caresse from Harry Crosby?), her fur hat, her eyelashes, her smile all glittery with animation.  The word on her lips is always yes, and all her being says yes yes yes to all that is happening and all that is offered her.  She trails behind her, like a plume of a peacock, a fabulous legend.  She ran the Black Sun Press in Paris, lived in a converted windmill, knew D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, Andre Breton, painters, writers.  At the Quartre Arts Ball she once rode a horse as Lady Godiva.

The life of certain women dresses them in anecdotes which become more visible than fur coats or silk dresses.  Stories surround Caresse like a perfume, a necklace, a feather.  She always seems fresher and younger than all the women there, because of her mobility, ease, flowingness.  D. H. Lawrence would have called it her “livingness.”  A pollen carrier, I thought, as she mixed, stirred, brewed, concocted her friendships by a constant flux and reflux of activity, by curiosity, avidity, amorousness.”

This was just a nice descriptive piece that I read last night in Anais Nin’s Diary, book three, 1939-1944.  Anais had just arrived in New York City from war-torn Paris, and was deeply homesick for her favorite city and all her friends. The the recent publication of her book, Winter of Artifice had made her well-known, and invitations began flowing to her, like this one she mentions at Kay de San Faustino’s.  This was in the winter of 1939.

A note on the subject matter. Caresse Crosby was married to Harry Crosby, a famous poet and writer, and the two were quite promiscuous, which is an understatement to say the least, in their married life, known for their partying, affairs (seven in bed at one time), drug use…basically they would make any current Hollywood celeb’s grandiose activities seem like child’s play. Harry Crosby died tragically in a double suicide pact (or so it is thought)  with one of his lovers years before this was written, and may be one of the “stories” that “surround Caresse like a perfume, a necklace, a feather” as quoted above by Anais. Caresse’s real name was Mary Phelps Jacobs and she was known for inventing the bra.  Just love discovering little pieces of history like this.

 

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