By Elisabeth Barillé
Anaïs Nin est née en 1903 en France. C’est son père, déçu d’avoir une fille, qui a choisi ce prénom aux sonorités ambiguës. Pianiste esthète et pervers, Joaquin Nin abandonne sa femme et ses enfants dix ans plus tard. Adolescente hantée par l. a. littérature puis épouse frustrée d’un banquier anglo-saxon, Américaine à Paris et mondaine malgré elle, Anaïs ne connaît qu’une jouissance : écrire. Elle a trente ans, quand elle rencontre Henry Miller. Elle l’aime, le soutient, le finance. Sage et troublante Anaïs ! Fantaisiste et ascète, insaisissable et un rien magicienne… elle dresses à elle Artaud, Brassaï, Allendy, Rank, Breton, Durrell… Anaïs, c’est un magazine. Cinquante ans d’écriture, quarante-cinq mille pages longtemps enfouies dans une cave de Brooklyn. De cette « confession » monumentale Elisabeth Barillé a tiré un portrait romanesque, tissé dans l. a. matière même de son œuvre, de sa vie.
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Extra info for Anaïs Nin, masquée, si nue
She could feel her vagina spasming, her juices leaking from her entrance, coating his fingers, soaking her panties. She wanted more. She needed relief for the overwhelming hunger now attacking her body. His fingers moved further. Faith lost her breath as she felt one circling the entrance to her vagina, spreading the thick cream of her arousal, teasing, taunting her. “Please—” her whispered entreaty became an agonized gasp of pure sensation as he penetrated the entrance to her burning core. Jacob groaned at her ear.
Where had he got the idea he had hurt her? She wanted to protest his feelings, but she couldn’t for the pleasure suddenly washing over her. ” She didn’t know if she was protesting that decision, or the hand slipping slowly inside the waistband of her pants as the other eased beneath the loose folds of her shirt. ” His teeth raked her neck. “I would not have been able to wait. I would not have been able to allow you the time of growing, of learning that you needed. ” His voice was strained, ferocious in its hunger.
She could only gasp for breath, she was beyond coherent speech. In the mirror, with only the light of the full moon to brighten the bedroom, she watched as his hand moved at her waist, sliding down, over her abdomen, the broad, dark fingers moving unerringly to the glistening lips of her sex. When the touch came, Faith didn’t think she could bear it. His fingers whispered over her clit, nearly throwing her into climax. If she could speak, she would be screaming for the ease. She could only whimper in desperation, arching to his fingers.