So basically I’ve been on hiatus after a decent spurt of fiction. I apologize. In advance.
I could manufacture a list of excuses for the lack of content and all would be relevant. But the thing is, I’m reading Anais Nin’s 1947-1955 unexpurgated diaries called “Trapeze.” That’s what I am doing.
Anais Nin is high level. Anais Nin is a dangerous writer. Anais Nin is fucking excellent. Here is a little bit:
“One handles the truth like dynamite. Literature is one vast hypocrisy, a slant, deception, treachery. All the writers have concealed more than they have revealed.”
“My father died mad. He did not understand what happened to him. I want my suffering to be useful. I want the novel to teach life. I want the novel to accomplish what the analyst does.”
“Great lovers never trust each other.”
“The diary cannot ever be published.”
So that’s it. I’m reading Anais Nin. New material is on the way.
Works Cited/ Referenced:
Nin, Anais. Trapeze: The Unexpurgated Diaries of Anais Nin, 1947-1955