The Early Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 2. (1920-1923)

The Early Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 2. (1920-1923)

A continuation of the journey of self-education and self-discovery begun by Anaïs Nin in the previous volume of her early diary. Central here is the growing conflict between her role as woman and her determination to be a writer. Editor's Note by Rupert Pole; Preface by Joaquin Nin-Culmell; Index; photographs. ANAÏS NIN (1903-1977) was born in Paris and aspired at an early age to be a writer. An influential artist and thinker, she was the author of several novels, short stories, critical studies, a collection of essays, nine published volumes of her Diary, and two volumes of erotica, Delta of Venus and Little Birds.  The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin Volume Two 1920-1923 By Anaïs Nin Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company Copyright © 1983 Rupert Pole as Trustee for the Anaïs Nin Trust All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-15-627248-3 Contents Title Page, Table of Contents, Copyright, Editor's Note, List of Illustrations, Preface, THE EARLY DIARY OF ANAÏS NIN, 1920, 1921, Photos 1, 1922, Photos 2, 1923, Glossary of Family Names, Index, About the Author, Footnotes, CHAPTER 1 1920 Summer. Richmond Hill. From afar our house looks like those they paint on Christmas cards. From near you can see it needs paint, that the porch is not very steady, that the railing which comes up to the entrance is rotted, and that the squirrels who run up and down the roof have found plenty of holes in it in which to make comfortable nests. At night it is at its best. You see only the lights shining through the windows, shining the better because there are no shades, and you see the outline of its sharp slanting roof against the sky. We moved in last night. Only part of the furniture had come. We ate by candlelight, and all slept in the same room, because it was stormy outside and we felt strange and lost in the big house. The candles threw fearful shadows on the walls, and many doors we were not used to opened unexpectedly into dark rooms. Our voices sounded hollow and dismal. We asked, however, with impatience: "Mother, whose room will this be?" "We'll see tomorrow, in the daylight." Tomorrow was long in coming. We were awake all night, with the sound of the rain and wind, with the shaking of windows and, worst of all, with strange footsteps on the roof. Once, I walked to the window, and when the lightning flashed I saw that Joaquin's eyes were wide open and that he was frightened too. "What is that noise on the roof?" he whispered. "That is what I'm trying to see." "What are you doing by the window?" asked Mother. "There's a noise on the roof." "That's nothing," said Mother, and went to sleep. Meanwhile Joaquin's head and mine were imagining stories. A man was surely looking down on us through the holes in the roof, to see what the people were like who had bought the old house. What did he think of us? Why was he running back and forth on the roof? Would the morning ever come and frighten him away? No. He was taking advantage of an endless night, of the rain, of the lonely hill. When Mother slept I went to the window again. Joaquin watched me with enormous eyes. All night the man ran up and down the roof, very fast, very nervously. All night it rained. Joaquin and I waited for the morning, and as soon as it came we dressed, and slipped out of the room, and went slowly downstairs and out of the house. We began to examine the roof anxiously. Immediately we saw the squirrels hurrying back and forth, in great excitement, up and down the slanting roof, in and out of mysterious holes, and along the very edge of it — the squirrels, disturbed by our arrival, restless and unable to sleep too, angry perhaps, and fearful of being chased out of their home. They had nothing to worry about. We fed them, and they came down from the roof to look into the house, at the new furniture, old to us, but new to them, I mean. The rooms were distributed. The corner one is mine, because everybody can see I need the sunshine the most. It has a fireplace and four windows, two looking toward the woods, and two toward the village, of which I can only see a few housetops. Joaquin has a smaller one next to mine, with one window toward the woods and the other toward the station. Opposite these, and giving onto the garden, Mother and Thorvald1 have their rooms. We spent the morning opening trunks, hanging pictures and curtains, pushing furniture around. My books are on the mantelpiece, with my journals, so I consider myself settled down. July 9. There is a little volume I often turn to at night after my daily tasks are all accomplished, for sweet, mute sympathy. I call it my Diary, and have grown to love it very dearly, adding always so much of myself and my life that it has all grown into many many little books, in which I am never tired of writing. You are today made one of them, and perhaps the only distinction I make in my treatment of you is the use of the English language in place of the French. It makes