I feel somewhat stupid. I know Anais Nin is a very renowned writer. However, I don’t know if I see it. I did see she had a huge set of balls and I did enjoy her introspective writing. However, I was lost with the whole “love” thing.

I am always confused by love and it amazes me this woman could love so many people and so often. I am not that brave. She certainly did what she wanted and it seemed she was always looking for something long lasting, but nothing ever was for her.

I think what annoyed me the most about this book was I have a Henry in my past. My mother always said people have reasons in our lives and I always wondered what the hell my Henry was doing in my life (besides making me suicidal and poor).  As I read Henry Miller through Nin’s eyes, I saw this character from my past emerging. I think in some way, my Henry thought he was Henry Miller and maybe I should have been his Anais Nin. I could never be her because again, I am not that brave and never could be. I could never open myself up to the idea of love the way Henry, June and Anais did. The push of Henry Miller, the ego of him, the self pity of him annoyed me to the point I couldn’t finish the book. As much as I whine, I can’t read whiney characters.

Thinking about my Henry makes me wonder about books and what we should take from them. I don’t think one should ever read a book and commit one’s self to acting the book out. Whether it is a biography or fiction, that life does not belong to you. It is someone else’s or some one’s creation. Yes, you can take pieces of it and apply it to your life. Books teach us all kinds of things about our life and how we think. But to let a book dictate your life?

I feel like my Henry most likely read Henry and June and wanted to act out his own, end of the 20th century style. I wonder where is the fun it that? Taking someone else’s life and calling it your own? Doesn’t seem right to me. I would rather make my own mistakes, learn my own lessons and evolve as I was meant to evolve. I want no one’s life but my own.

In that same last sentence, isn’t that the point of Nin? Didn’t she just want her own life?

Maybe I should read another of her journals because maybe the taste of my Henry is still, after all these years, so bitter in my mouth, I can’t see anything but that bitterness and pain.

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