"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
She took off her dress. She had long black hair, a pale face, slanted
green eyes, greener than the sea. She was beautifully formed, with high
breasts, long legs, a stylized body. She knew how to swim better than any
other woman on the island. She slid into the water and began her long easy
strokes towards Evelyn.
Anais Nin, Mallorca
Letter from Anais Nin To Sean
Every stroke is like the foundation
of Adam you pound and twist.
Make your cock shift from inner
to outer space. That way when you lift
you are not empty, while the air
above your sex has a crisp outline
--movements down inner thigh
easy to sway, a lilt almost, dark
reservoir where you are satisfied
before it happens, as you wait
anticipating that several blink.
Letter from Sean to Anais
When i kiss, my lips are tender and nibble
and my breath sweet can be heard in
that autumn forest as a river runs
down your spine; you are a mouth that licks
the back of my hand nibbling on my fingers
while I find the crease of your vulva
and liberate the edges. You're a lovely,
fertile reef where impossible swans
hold my cock within the fireworks
spoken as light storms remember
the reflected grace of your mouth
and eyes when we stare into that abyss
that never stops so wonderful sex
rides our back to an ancient sea
forgotten when the tide pools break.
She had long black hair and when she spoke
the hair covered her eyes, and you cleared them
by brushing the strands back, slipping your ideal
into her mouth, her long legs drawn against your
anticipation of some deep distress when you finish
later, a great shark of a ship hunting the strokes,
spliting the pearl clam open with your
simple breathing foaming hurricanes,
when they reach half-way suddenly still --
the anchor falls through the splash
raging down our street released
to an undetermined depth.