Fansite for ANAÏS NIN and AMENA KHAN "AMENAKIN"
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Johnnie is in love. What can one say? I looked the girl over. - Anaïs Nin, 30 july 1928
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The Walls were decorated with pictures from Alice in Wonderland
- Anais Nin, October 1921
ANAÏS NIN
First night—just the bed made. No hot water, or telephone, or gas, or light. I was worn out but cheerful and hungry, and I felt a great sense of power because the whole thing was done with order and a thousand obstacles were quickly overcome. In a few days I knew all the electrical terms and all the details of plumbing, the qualities and kinds of woods. I had all my closets made. I bought some paint and started some experiments with color. Even the first night, the house was tidy. Hugh never lacked a button. I kept a notebook, my keys in a bunch with tags on them. I interviewed the architect, had conferences with the concierge, spotted the defects, had them repaired, followed up the workmen, tipped, smiled, offered beer, craftily evaded deceit and cheating, didn't once lose my temper, and learned in a week to handle these perspiring, smelly brutes. - Anais Nin, 28 july 1929 -
My canaries are extremely happy here and one of them sings constantly. The other day, from I don't know where, Joaquinito brought home an ugly little black cat with green eyes. later, when I surprised it on top of the canary cage I asked Thorvald to take it away; so today when Joaquinito let go of it for a few minutes Thorvald hid it in his sweater and lost it a long way from here. Joaquinito cried a lot and I was ready to bring it back, but Thorvald had more strength of character than I and refused. - Anais Nin, July 31, 1919
I received a bottle of toilet water, my favorite Royal Begonia by Houbigant. And two canaries. But by accident one of my little singers, along with the one belonging to aunt Edelmira was put on the heater and asphyxiated, to my great sorrow. Another day I would have wept over the death of my little favorites, but not today. - Anais Nin, January 22, 1920
[Anais Nin, Winter, 1947-1948]
Acapulco, Mexico. I am lying on a hammock, on the terrace of my room at the Hotel Mirador, the diary open on my knees, the sun shining on the diary, and I have no desire to write. The sun, the leaves, the shade, the warmth, are so alive that they lull the senses, calm the imagination. This is perfection. There is no need to portray, to preserve. It is eternal, it overwhelms you, it is complete. The natives have riot yet learned from the white man his inventions for traveling away from the present, his scientific capacity for analyzing warmth into a chemical substance, for abstracting human beings into symbols. The white man has invented glasses which make objects too near or too far, cameras, telescopes, spyglasses, objects which put glass between living and vision. It is the image he seeks to possess, not the texture, the living warmth, the human closeness.
Here in Mexico they see only the present. This communion of eyes and smiles is elating. In New York people seem intent on not seeing each other. Only children look with such unashamed curiosity. Poor white man, wandering and lost in his proud possession of a dimension in which bodies become invisible to the naked eye, as if staring were an immodest act. Here I feel incarnated and in full possession of my own body. A new territory of pleasure. The green of the foliage is not like any other green; it is deeper, lacquered and moist. The leaves are heavier and fuller, the flowers bigger. They seem surcharged with sap, and more alive, as if they never have to close against the frost, or even a cold night. As if they have no need of sleep.
But several things happened in the little house. The tank on the roof which supplied water for the bath and for cooking would either run dry or overflow during the night. The insects I pursued with Flytox turned out to be scorpions, who liked to nest behind the straw mats. Rats came at night, ate the food, ran over my body and frightened me to death.When I asked advice from the Mexicans, they counseled resignation. I bought rat poison and began to fight them, but a new batch came every night through the terrace.The young men of the town found out I was living alone and came to call me, or serenade me behind the latticed walls. I would put out the lights and lie in the dark. I had to walk up the steep hill with food and ice.I invited Alice Rahon to stay with me. She brought her long beautiful black hair, her radiant smile, her superb swimming. Her talk was full of fascination.
- Anais Nin, winter 1947-1948
Joaquin does not understand how spoiled I am. Henry gives me the world. June gave me madness. They gave me two beings I can admire. How grateful I am to find two people who interest me unreservedly. They are generous to me in a way I cannot explain to Joaquin. Can I explain to Joaquin that Henry gives me his water colors, and June her only bracelet? Henry reproaches June for falling down in her acting because once she gave herself away in a café. Men who knew me made flippant remarks about wanting to sleep with me. June stopped them in an angry way which revealed her love of me. As if I were sacred. - Anais Nin, early 1932
Louveciennes december 2000
Anais' canaries, 1919-1920
My canaries are extremely happy here and one of them sings constantly. The other day, from I don't know where, Joaquinito brought home an ugly little black cat with green eyes. later, when I surprised it on top of the canary cage I asked Thorvald to take it away; so today when Joaquinito let go of it for a few minutes Thorvald hid it in his sweater and lost it a long way from here. Joaquinito cried a lot and I was ready to bring it back, but Thorvald had more strength of character than I and refused.
July 31, 1919
My canaries are singing along with a phonograph and I stop what I'm doing to dance from one end of the house to the other carried away by an invisible someone as I used to do at 158 (West 75th St.) when the hand organ went by.
August 7, 1919
I don't know what the neighbours think but I spend my day singing, imitating the way my canary expresses his joy.
August 14, 1919
In looking after the cages I discovered my little bird, the one who sang so well, lying in the bottom of the cage, almost dead. We gave him castor oil, brandy and warm water and wrapped him in cotton but he died anyhow and Joaquinito buried him next to the other one beneath the same lilac tree.
When I think about the picture that I took of him, about his songs that gladdened the silence of my solitude at Edgemere, I feel sad with thoughts of the things that pass. It's only a bird who has gone from my life but I am aware of that strange law that forces us to separate that causes emptiness and breaks so many hearts when its fatal power is felt.
October 3, 1919
I have a page, a little canary that hops about all the time and delights me in my brief moments of solitude.
December 9, 1919
Today it was our turn to do the housekeeping I cleaned my canary's cage and after lunch maman and I went to market.
January 10, 1920
I didn't want to admit that I wasn't up to getting out of bed and I dragged all day behind maman as I always do of late, but usually instead of dragging, I hop like my canary.
January 16, 1920
"Anais, Anais, what do you make of life?" my maman and my optimistic canary, who follows my every gesture, seem to ask. What shall I answer? Everyone lives his life as he wishes like the chairs and up until now I don't put them to their proper use. I certainly know exactly what a chair is mean for, but Life - not yet.
January 16, 1920
I have a canary bird. He invariably chirrups about the events of life in the most lighthearted fashion. While he watches all my movements he seems to be thinking that I am a very amusing person; in fact, my canary bird can be said to be an optimist. I also own a pussy cat. He is always very grave, rather proud and vidictive; all his evil designs on my miniature Caruso are cleverly frustrated which causes his temper to be of no pleasant sort, naturally. He seems to be saying all day: "I will never catch this infamous bird." I believe he is a pessimist.
January 20, 1920
Now, which of the two is the most happy? Which should be imitated by anyone in search of a model for the moulding of his own character? Would you like to be my canary bird, or my cat?
January 22, 1920
I received a bottle of toilet water, my favorite Royal Begonia by Houbigant. And two canaries. But by accident one of my little singers, along with the one belonging to aunt Edelmira was put on the heater and asphyxiated, to my great sorrow. Another day I would have wept over the death of my little favorites, but not today.
March 27, 1920
The story of a moderately good girl's day. 7:30 Early rising with canary.
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Then there is a plant with a half-opened flower, a white, delicate dream flower, to which I give all the love I have for the woods and fields. - Anais Nin, 7 january 1921
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Since we do not know the inner life of the plant we can only say poetically that the beauty of the plant gives glory to God, which is what the Psalms are saying all the time. The idea that plants are aware of their own "ultimate ground" is something, again, that I would readily allow the poet, but not myself as a theologian.
If the most finely polished needle on which the art of man has been expended be subjected to a microscope, many inequalities, much roughness and clumsiness, will be seen. But if the microscope be brought to bear on the flowers of the field, no such result appears. Instead of their beauty diminishing, new beauties and still more delicate, that have escaped the naked eye, are forthwith discovered; beauties that make us appreciate, in a way which otherwise we could have had little conception of, the full force of the Lord's saying, "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even King Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these."
- Soren Kierkegaard
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AMENA KHAN
Fascinating lady, smashing personality. From the days of her Youtube, Alice the Non-Hijabi and so on... Amena Khan, just like Anais Nin, is the type of unattainable woman I saw standing in the distance. I just think it is fun to dedicate a fan website to her.
- by Martin Zender, isbn 978 1956 293 043
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Golshifteh Farahani Twitter
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