A Visit from Anaïs Nin
In case this makes no sense to you (as seems likely), right now I’m reading Henry and June, which is laden with assertions that various women are like men. Women who write like men, who are handsome like men, whose hands are like men’s hands, who are drawn to other women sexually as men are. Nin does write gorgeously sometimes, and I sometimes understand what she’s talking about, so I like her better than D. H. Lawrence (who has also been stixified) even though like him she goes on and on about love and sex in ways that to me are obscure (and even though she refers to ejaculate as “white blood,” which is gross). Also, not being English, she doesn’t have Lawrence’s obsession with class distinctions, and she lacks his contempt for the poor and his hatred of women. Also his hideous beard. All improvements.
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