Love

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Fame is in your lifetime and disappears. Anaïs has had that. What she wants, what she has always wanted, is glory—to be remembered forever with admiration.” So when Anaïs turned her head to me on the starched pillow and pleaded, “I’m afraid I’m dying,” I promised, “You cannot die, because you will always be remembered.” I saw the corners of her thin lips curl slightly upward, so I continued, “Young women will read you for centuries to come. Over and over again, they’ll discover their sexuality through you. You are timeless because you have given voice to the eternal woman.” Seeing a glint in her eyes, I went on, not caring that I was repeating myself, not caring that I was gushing, trying to express my passion to her with my hyperbolic declarations of her undying glory, standing like an acolyte, hands at my sides, crying out what was in my heart. “Through you, women will find their inner life. Coming of age will not have to be so lonely for girls anymore. You will have daughters of daughters, who will find the second birth by reading your diaries.” She struggled to raise herself in the bed. “Prop up my pillow, please. I’m enjoying your company. I’ve been spending too much time with the wrong people.” By “the wrong people” she must have meant Evelyn Hinz and those hippie white light people. I was glad she saw she should be spending time with me instead, but that meant I had to keep coming up with things to inspire her. I wanted to exclaim my love for her, to cry out that I could not bear to lose her, but I was afraid it would quicken her fear that she was dying. I ventured, “I’ve been thinking about this card deck of women authors I had as a girl. There were cards for Louisa May Alcott and Harriet Beecher Stowe and Edith Wharton. Now they’re going to have to add your picture, and even girls of seven will know who you are.” “What do girls do with the cards?” “You’re supposed to play a game like Fish, but we made them trading cards and begged or poached our favorite authors from each other.” “Did they have George Sand in the deck?” “I don’t think so. Maybe it was just American women. But you’re an American author.” “You see me as an American author, Tchrristine?” Her French accent was so pronounced that for a moment I doubted myself. But I answered, “Absolutely! You’re as all-American as F. Scott Fitzgerald!” As I said it, I realized how much like Fitzgerald’s mythic character of Jay Gatsby Anaïs was. She had Gatsby’s charm and generosity and his romantic readiness to stake all for the dream. She was looking much better. Her eyes would never again be turquoise, but the sea’s depth had returned to them. “Could you hand me that mirror?” she asked me. “And my makeup bag?”

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  The mystic involves himself not only in the practical absurdity of becoming obsessed with self, in the very fever of the effort to eliminate it, but in the rational absurdity of passing judgment upon even the most unselfish desires as being selfish because they are desires. “We must suppress our desires, even the desire for the joys of paradise,” declares Madame Guyon. {30} Bousset, who traces down these morbid efforts of the mystics to achieve absolutely consistent disinterestedness, paraphrases their dominant sentiment in the words, “The desire for God is not God, therefore we close the door upon that as well.” {31} The mystics who attempted to satisfy their longing for absolute perfection in ascetic practice were involved in an even more difficult and irrational procedure. They destroyed life and society in the process of refining it. Both Christian and Buddhist ascetics, unable to disassociate selfish desire from the will-to-live, have stopped short only of complete physical annihilation in their effort to destroy desire. In the paradox of Christ, “Whoso seeketh to find his life shall lose it and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it,” {32} the religious tension which drives toward asceticism is resolved by condemning self-seeking as a goal of life, but allowing self-realisation as a by-product of self-abnegation. This paradox has saved Christianity from the pessimistic denials of life which characterise Hinduism and Buddhism, more particularly the latter. Yet the difference between Western and Eastern religion is only one of degree. Asceticism remains a permanent characteristic of all religious life. It may degenerate into morbid moralities of various kinds, but its complete absence is a proof of a lack of vitality in religion. A sun warm enough to ripen the fruits of the garden must make some fruits overripe. Criticism of the ascetic note in religion, which regards it merely as an excrescence and not as an inevitable by-product of the religious yearning for the absolute, proceeds from a lack of understanding of the true nature of religion. {33} On the social limitations of ascetic sensitivity we shall have occasion to say more later. It would be well to consider first another moral resource of religion, which tends to qualify and to destroy the subjectivism into which mysticism and asceticism easily fall. This is the religious emphasis upon love as the highest virtue. A rational ethic aims at justice, and a religious ethic makes love the ideal. A rational ethic seeks to bring the needs of others into equal consideration with those of the self. The religious ethic, (the Christian ethic more particularly, though not solely) insists that the needs of the neighbor shall be met, without a careful computation of relative needs. This emphasis upon love is another fruit of the religious sense of the absolute. On the one hand religion absolutises the sentiment of benevolence and makes it the norm and ideal of the moral life.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Take note, then, that neither of the two is guilty of the crime to which they both confess. It was I, in fact, who killed the man this morning at sunrise, and as I was dividing the spoils of our night’s activities with the fellow I murdered, I saw this poor wretch lying asleep in the cave. As for Titus, he has no need of me for a champion: everyone knows him to be an upright citizen, who would never stoop to such a deed as this. Release them therefore, and punish me in the manner prescribed by the laws.’ News of the affair had meanwhile reached the ears of Octavianus, who summoned the three men to his presence and demanded to know why each of them was so eager to be convicted of the murder, whereupon they all explained their motives in turn. And in the end he released all three, the first two because they were innocent, and the third for the sake of the others. Titus then took hold of his friend Gisippus, and after scolding him severely for treating him so coldly and suspiciously, he made a great fuss of him and led him away to his house, where Sophronia, with tears of compassion, greeted him as a brother. And after Titus had to some extent restored his spirits, and clothed him once again in a manner befitting his nobility and excellence, he not only made him joint owner of all his treasures and possessions, but also presented him with a wife in the person of a young sister of his called Fulvia. Then he said to him: ‘It is now up to you to decide, Gisippus, whether you want to stay here with me, or return to Greece with all the things I have given you.’ Prompted on the one hand by the fact that he was exiled from his native city, and on the other by his just regard for the precious friendship of Titus, Gisippus consented to become a citizen of Rome, where they lived long and happily together under the same roof, Gisippus with his Fulvia and Titus with his Sophronia; and if such a thing were conceivable, their friendship gained steadily in strength with every day that passed. Friendship, then, is a most sacred thing, not only worthy of singular reverence, but eternally to be praised as the deeply discerning mother of probity and

• From The Decameron (1353)

  6 Realizing that she had a nincompoop for a husband, she fell in love with Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a handsome fellow in the full vigour of his youth, and he with her, and she made arrangements through one of her maidservants for Federigo to come and keep her company at a splendid villa belonging to her husband in Camerata, 7 where she used to spend the whole of the summer, and to which Gianni would occasionally come in the evening in order to sup with her and stay overnight before returning next morning to his place of business or sometimes to his laud-singers. Federigo desired nothing better, and one day, when the coast was clear, he made his way up to the villa as prearranged, a little before vespers. Gianni was not expected that evening, so Federigo was thoroughly at his ease; and to his immense pleasure, he was able to sup there and spend the night with the lady, who lay in his arms and took him through a good half dozen of her husband’s lauds before the night was over. But neither she nor Federigo intended that this first time should also be the last, and since it was imprudent to send the maid to fetch him every time, they came to the following arrangement: that every day, on his way to or from a villa of his that stood a little further up the road, he should keep an eye on the vineyard alongside her house, where he would see the skull of an ass 8 perched on top of one of the stakes of the vines. If he saw that the face was turned in the direction of Florence, he would come to her after dark that evening without fail and in complete safety, and if the door was locked he would knock three times and she would come and let him in; but if he saw that the face of the skull was pointing towards Fiesole he would stay away, because it would mean that Gianni was at home. And by using this system they were able to meet together regularly. But on one of these occasions when Federigo was due to come and take supper with Monna Tessa, and she had roasted a pair of fat capons in his honour, it so happened that, much to the lady’s annoyance, Gianni turned up unexpectedly, very late in the evening. She and her husband supped on a small quantity of salted meat which she had cooked separately; and meanwhile she got her maid to wrap the two roast capons in a white tablecloth together with a quantity of new-laid eggs and a flask of choice wine, and carry them into her garden, which it was possible to reach without going through the house, and where every so often she and Federigo used to sup.

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  Even the teachings of Jesus reveal a prudential strain in which the wholesome social consequences of generous attitudes are emphasised. “With what measure you mete, it shall be measured to you again.” The paradox of the moral life consists in this: that the highest mutuality is achieved where mutual advantages are not consciously sought as the fruit of love. For love is purest where it desires no returns for itself; and it is most potent where it is purest. Complete mutuality, with its advantages to each party to the relationship, is therefore most perfectly realised where it is not intended, but love is poured out without seeking returns. That is how the madness of religious morality, with its trans-social ideal, becomes the wisdom which achieves wholesome social consequences. For the same reason a purely prudential morality must be satisfied with something less than the best. Where human relations are intimate (and love is fully effective only in intimate and personal relations), the way of love may be the only way to justice. Where rights and interests are closely interwoven, it is impossible to engage in a shrewd and prudent calculation of comparative rights. Where lives are closely intertwined, happiness is destroyed if it is not shared. Justice by assertion and counter-assertion therefore becomes impossible. The friction involved in the process destroys mutual happiness. Justice by a careful calculation of competing rights is equally difficult, if not impossible. Interests and rights are too mutual to allow for their precise definition in individual terms. The very effort to do so is a proof of the destruction of the spirit of mutuality by which alone intimate relations may be adjusted. The spirit of mutuality can be maintained only by a passion which does not estimate the personal advantages which are derived from mutuality too carefully. Love must strive for something purer than justice if it would attain justice. Egoistic impulses are so much more powerful than altruistic ones that if the latter are not given stronger than ordinary support, the justice which even good men design is partial to those who design it. This social validity of a moral ideal which transcends social considerations in its purest heights, is progressively weakened as it is applied to more and more intricate, indirect and collective human relations. It is not only unthinkable that a group should be able to attain a sufficiently consistent unselfish attitude toward other groups to give it a very potent redemptive power, but it is improbable that any competing group would have the imagination to appreciate the moral calibre of the achievement. Furthermore a high type of unselfishness, even if it brings ultimate rewards, demands immediate sacrifices. An individual may sacrifice his own interests, either without hope of reward or in the hope of an ultimate compensation. But how is an individual, who is responsible for the interests of his group, to justify the sacrifice of interests other than his own?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  If the cobbler has been indiscreet, then admittedly I must take good care not to let him meddle again in my affairs, but at the same time I must thank him for the services he has rendered. So that if Gisippus has married Sophronia well, to complain of the man and his methods is a piece of gratuitous folly; and if you suspect his judgement, thank him for what he has done, and see that he is never given the chance to do it again. ‘Nevertheless I must make it clear that I never sought, whether by native cunning or deliberate fraud, to besmirch the honour and the fame of your family in the person of Sophronia. Although I married her in secret, I was no plunderer, intent on despoiling her of her virginity, nor did I wish to possess her on dishonourable terms, like one who was your enemy and who spurned your kinship. I wanted her because I was ardently enamoured of her enchanting beauty and superior worth. Yet I knew that had I sought your formal consent, which you may feel I was obliged to obtain, it would not have been forthcoming, since, loving her deeply as you do, you would have feared that I would take her away to Rome. ‘Accordingly I resorted to the secret measures that can now be openly revealed, and I forced Gisippus, for my sake, to fall in with my plans. Moreover, though I was passionately in love with her, it was not as her lover that I conjoined myself to Sophronia, but as her husband. For as she herself can truthfully bear witness, I kept my distance until after I had wedded her by saying the necessary words and placing the ring on her finger, and when I asked her whether she would have me as her husband, she told me that she would. If she feels she was deceived, she should not blame me, but herself, for failing to ask me who I was. So the enormous crime, the terrible sin, the unpardonable wrong committed by Gisippus, my devoted friend, and by myself, her devoted admirer, was simply that Sophronia was married to Titus Quintus in secret; for this reason alone do you tear him to pieces, bombard him with threats, and sharpen your knives against him. What more would you have done, had he given her to a serf, a scoundrel, or a slave? Where would you have found the fetters, the dungeons, or the tortures equal to his offence? ‘But of this let us say no more for the present. Something has now occurred which I was not yet expecting, namely, that my father has died and I am

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now she seemed to forget Stephen’s presence, for she spoke as one lover will speak with another—foolishly, fondly, inventing small names, as one lover will do for another. And watching them Stephen beheld a great marvel, for he opened his eyes and his eyes met her mother’s, and a light seemed to shine over both their poor faces, transfiguring them with something triumphant, with love—thus those two rekindled the beacon for their child in the shadow of the valley of death. 2It was late afternoon before the doctor arrived; he had been out all day and the roads were heavy. He had come the moment he received the news, come as fast as a car clogged with snow could bring him. He did what he could, which was very little, for Sir Philip was conscious and wished to remain so; he would not permit them to ease his pain by administering drugs. He could speak very slowly. ‘No—not that—something urgent—I want—to say. No drugs—I know I’m—dying—Evans.’ The doctor adjusted the slipping pillows, then turning he whispered carefully to Stephen. ‘Look after your mother. He’s going, I think—it can’t be long now. I’ll wait in the next room. If you need me you’ve only got to call me.’ ‘Thank you,’ she answered, ‘if I need you I’ll call you.’ Then Sir Philip paid even to the uttermost farthing, paid with stupendous physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitiful heart; and he drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the making of one great and terrible effort: ‘Anna—it’s Stephen—listen.’ They were holding his hands. ‘It’s—Stephen—our child—she’s, she’s—it’s Stephen—not like—’ His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still upon Anna’s bosom. Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had stooped and was kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing his lips, as though to breathe back the life into his body. And none might be there to witness that thing, save God—the God of death and affliction, Who is also the God of love. Turning away she stole out of their presence, leaving them alone in the darkening study, leaving them alone with their deathless devotion—hand in hand, the quick and the dead. BOOK TWOCHAPTER 151S ir Philip’s death deprived his child of three things; of companionship of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart barrier between her and the world, and above all of love—that faithful love that would gladly have suffered all things for her sake, in order to spare her suffering.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She was at the stage of being in love when she longed to do womanly tasks for Stephen. But all Stephen’s clothes were discouragingly neat; Mary thought that she must be very well served, which was true—she was served, as are certain men, with a great deal of nicety and care by the servants. And now Stephen was filling her cigarette case from the big box that lived on her dressing table; and now she was strapping on her gold wrist watch; and now she was brushing some dust from her coat; and now she was frowning at herself in the glass for a second as she twitched her immaculate necktie. Mary had seen her do all this before, many times, but to-day somehow it was different; for to-day they were in their own home together, so that these little intimate things seemed more dear than they had done at Orotava. The bedroom could only have belonged to Stephen; a large, airy room, very simply furnished—white walls, old oak, and a wide, bricked hearth on which some large, friendly logs were burning. The bed could only have been Stephen’s bed; it was heavy and rather austere in pattern. It looked solemn as Mary had seen Stephen look, and was covered by a bedspread of old blue brocade, otherwise it remained quite guiltless of trimmings. The chairs could only have been Stephen’s chairs; a little reserved, not conducive to lounging. The dressing table could only have been hers, with its tall silver mirror and ivory brushes. And all these things had drawn into themselves a species of life derived from their owner, until they seemed to be thinking of Stephen with a dumbness that made their thoughts more insistent, and their thoughts gathered strength and mingled with Mary’s so that she heard herself cry out: ‘Stephen!’ in a voice that was not very far from tears, because of the joy she felt in that name. And Stephen answered her: ‘Mary—’ Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each of them felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual love can at times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest of hearts may grow fearful. And although they could not have put it into words, could not have explained it to themselves or to each other, they seemed at that moment to be looking beyond the turbulent flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight into the eyes of a love that was changed—a love made perfect, discarnate. But the moment passed and they drew together. . . . 2 The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quite soon, and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streets of the Quarter—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Pères, the Rue Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist the first spring days in Paris?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  What do I care for anything but you, and you just as you are—as you are, I love you! Do you think I’m crying because of what you’ve told me? I’m crying because of your dear, scarred face . . . the misery on it. . . . Can’t you understand that all that I am belongs to you, Stephen?’ Stephen bent down and kissed Mary’s hands very humbly, for now she could find no words any more . . . and that night they were not divided. CHAPTER 50 1 S tephen ought to have gone to England that summer; at Morton there had been a change of agent, and once again certain questions had arisen which required her careful personal attention. But time had not softened Anna’s attitude to Mary, and time had not lessened Stephen’s exasperation—the more so as Mary no longer hid the bitterness that she felt at this treatment. So Stephen tackled the business by writing a number of long and wearisome letters, unwilling to set foot again in the house where Mary Llewellyn would not be welcome. But as always the thought of England wounded, bringing with it the old familiar longing—homesick she would feel as she sat at her desk writing those wearisome business letters. For even as Jamie must crave for the grey, wind-swept street and the wind-swept uplands of Beedles, so Stephen must crave for the curving hills, for the long green hedges and pastures of Morton. Jamie openly wept when such moods were upon her, but the easement of tears was denied to Stephen. In August Jamie and Barbara joined them in a villa that Stephen had taken at Houlgate. Mary hoped that the bathing would do Barbara good; she was not at all well. Jamie worried about her. And indeed the girl had grown very frail, so frail that the housework now tried her sorely; when alone she must sit down and hold her side for the pain that was never mentioned to Jamie. Then too, all was not well between them these days; poverty, even hunger at times, the sense of being unwanted outcasts, the knowledge that the people to whom they belonged—good and honest people—both abhorred and despised them, such things as these had proved very bad housemates for sensitive souls like Barbara and Jamie.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  A smile broke out on his face like the afternoon sun replacing the morning fog over their house. “Don’t you think there’s a reason, Anaïs, why I’ve never asked your age?” He grabbed her cold hand. “I don’t care.” “But I do. I’ve cheated you by taking your youth.” He laughed and lifted her balled fist to kiss it. Oh, why was he being so decent about this? She had to get him to sign that annulment but she could not tell him why. His clear blue eyes were full of love. “My youth is a small thing to give when I think about all you have given me. All the interesting people and places and ideas you have brought into my life.” He stayed close as he whispered, “We don’t need an annulment, you silly goose. There isn’t any woman of any age I’d rather be with.” Dear Rupert. How had she been so lucky to find a man who could love this way? How could she come out and tell him when, despite everything, he still hadn’t figured it out? But why hadn’t he figured it out, she wondered. Why hadn’t either of her husbands figured it out? There had been so many times it had been right there in their faces. Why had they accepted her blithe and often silly lies? They didn’t want to know. And why did they not want to know? Because they didn’t want to let her go, ever, just as she didn’t want to let go of either of them, ever. This was the honest conversation she should have with Rupert; with Hugo, too. “Well, as long as I’m confessing things, there’s something else. The IRS has no record of my divorce from Hugo and I can’t find my copy of the decree.” The tiny veins on Rupert’s nose and cheeks turned the color of spilled wine, and she knew his rage would follow. “Then what proof do you have that you’re divorced?” Rupert’s eyes were ice. “Well, I know I’m divorced from Hugo. And Hugo knows we’re divorced,” she lied. “But the IRS demands paper proof. It could take years to unearth and cost a lot of money. Let’s just give them a paper annulment and get married again in Mexico.” In the end, Rupert decided that they didn’t need the warmongering US government to be a party to their union. After their annulment and a Mexican marriage, they continued to live and love happily as man and wife. CHAPTER 28 Los Angeles, California, 1971–73 TRISTINE

• From The Decameron (1353)

  You are to know, then, that in Lombardy there was once a convent, widely renowned for its sanctity and religious fervour, which housed a certain number of nuns, one of them being a girl of gentle birth, endowed with wondrous beauty, whose name was Isabetta. One day, having come to the grating to converse with a kinsman of hers, she fell in love with a handsome young man who was with him; and the young man, observing that she was very beautiful, and divining her feelings through the language of the eyes, fell no less passionately in love with her. For some little time, to the no small torment of each, their love remained unfulfilled; but eventually, their desire for one another being equally acute, the young man thought of a way for him and his nun to forgather in secret; and with her willing consent he visited her not only once but over and over again, to their intense and mutual delight. This went on for some considerable time until one night, unbeknown either to himself or to Isabetta, he was seen by one of the other nuns as he left her cell and proceeded on his way. The nun told several of her companions, who at first were inclined to report Isabetta to the Abbess, a lady called Madonna Usimbalda, whose goodness and piety were a byword among all the nuns and everyone else who knew her. But on second thoughts they decided, so that their story should admit of no denial, to try and arrange for the Abbess to catch her red-handed with the young man. So they kept it to themselves, and secretly took it in turns to keep her under close and constant watch in order to take her in flagrante. Now Isabetta knew nothing of all this, and one night, taking no special care, she happened to arrange for her lover to come. This he no sooner did than he was espied by the nuns whose business it was to keep watch, and after biding their time until well into the night, the nuns formed themselves into two separate groups, the first mounting guard at the entrance to Isabetta’s cell whilst the second hurried off to the chamber of the Abbess. Their knocking at the door was promptly acknowledged by the Abbess, and so they called out to her, saying: ‘Get up, Mother Abbess, come quickly! We’ve discovered Isabetta has a young man with her in her cell!’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now she was crying a little to herself, letting the tears trickle down unheeded. One of them splashed on to Stephen’s coat sleeve and lay there, a small, dark blot on the cloth, while the patient arms never faltered. ‘Stephen, say something—say you don’t hate me!’ A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Stephen stared down into Angela’s face. It was marred by weeping; it looked almost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. And because of that pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weakness that lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Stephen loved her so deeply at that moment, that she found no adequate words. ‘Say something—speak to me, Stephen!’ Then Stephen gently released her arm, and she found the little white box in her pocket: ‘Look, Angela, I got you this for your birthday—Ralph can’t bully you about it, it’s a birthday present.’ ‘Stephen—my dear!’ ‘Yes—I want you to wear it always, so that you’ll remember how much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when you talked about hating—Angela, give me your hand, the hand that used to bleed in the winter.’ So the pearl that was pure as her mother’s diamonds were pure, Stephen slipped on to Angela’s finger. Then she sat very still, while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its beauty. Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips were quite close to Stephen’s, but Stephen kissed her instead on the forehead. ‘You must rest,’ she said,’ you’re simply worn out. Can’t you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?’ For at moments, such is the blindness and folly yet withal the redeeming glory of love. CHAPTER 241R alph said very little about the ring. What could he say? A present given to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour—an unusually costly present of course—still, after all, what could he say? He took refuge in sulky silence. But Stephen would see him staring at the pearl, which Angela wore on her right-hand third finger, and his weak little eyes would look redder than usual, perhaps with anger—one could never quite tell from his eyes whether he was tearful or angry.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Trying to put her at ease, I commented on a collection of masks I hadn’t noticed before on one of her walls. They all looked homemade: a red devil’s mask, a white ruffled lady’s mask, a long-nosed Venetian mask, several grotesque animal masks, and the scariest—a featureless bone-white mask. Renate explained that she’d made the masks out of papier-mâché as decorations for a party she’d thrown at her house where all the guests wore costumes to portray their own madness. She’d hung the masks from sumac branches, and in the flickering candlelight, the swinging masks danced amongst the masks of meandering guests. “I wish I could have been there. What was your costume for the party?” I asked her. “I held death masks on sticks in two hands. When I removed one, there would be another mask of death behind it.” I loved that—it was deep like existentialism but, as I was learning about surrealism, much more fun. I was attracted to Renate and Anaïs’s playfulness and creativity, yet my recent scare had shown me that they could be dangerous to my future. Renate went on to tell me that a friend of hers, Kenneth Anger, had directed an experimental film called Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome that recreated her party. In it, she, her son Peter, Anaïs, and Rupert had enacted a pagan ritual. She recommended I catch the film when it screened at college campuses on Halloween, rekindling my suspicion that Renate was a witch. Despite her warning on the phone that my questions were rude, I decided I couldn’t wait. “You said something could be done for me at my uptight university. Do you know what turned Dr. Inch around?” To my surprise, she smiled. “Do you remember meeting Chris at Holiday House?” I assumed she was referring to Christopher Isherwood, but I didn’t get any more information because we were interrupted by Anaïs’s arrival. Renate quickly departed to display some of her canvases at an outdoor art show, and Anaïs settled on her floor-pillow pedestal asking how I was. “I’m okay.” Actually my blood was racing. I felt like demanding, I’m owed some answers! But Anaïs’s warmth was shining on me. I recognized how beloved I felt in her presence, and my anger melted away as she introduced the subject so I didn’t have to. “Renate has kept me up to date on the drama that has gone on in your life since Hugo phoned your Dr. Inch. I am so sorry, Tchrristine. We never intended for it to harm you.” “Did you or Renate fix it somehow with Inch?” She smiled as Renate had, a sign I took as permission to ask my questions. “Why did Hugo phone Inch in the first place? How did he know about the letter I wrote for you?” “Hugo and I are still the best of friends.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  After we heard the front door close, Anaïs declared, “You must go to Europe, Tristine! Have an affair with Jean-Jacques, and then he can sponsor you to visit him in Paris. You will see how much more sophisticated Europeans are about marriage. Here people are not faithful and believe they must get a divorce. The family falls apart; everyone is hurt. In Europe the man and the woman each have other lovers and stay married.” “But that would hurt even more.” “They are discreet. They love each other so they protect each other.” “I don’t think I could ever keep secrets from the person I marry.” The corners of her mouth curled indulgently, saying you’ll learn, but I didn’t want to. What was the point of being married, I thought, if you couldn’t share everything about yourself with your husband and he with you? Anaïs lit one of her gold-tipped Sobranies from the box sitting on the wrought iron table. “So what will it be?” She exhaled. “Will you ask Jean-Jacques to be your lover or would you like me to ask him?” “To be your lover?” “No.” She laughed. “You are naughty. I’ll ask him to be your lover if you are too shy to do it yourself.” “I’m much too shy, but I don’t know if I want you to—” “Don’t worry. He won’t even know I’ve spoken with you. He’ll believe it was his idea, and that I simply didn’t discourage him.” “But where would we … ? Lenore is back at her loft, so we couldn’t …” “That’s what hotels are for.” She moved the untouched cheese to the fruit plate and used the empty saucer as an ashtray. “What will you wear? I always prepare for occasions by dressing the part.” “I don’t know.” “You have to wear white. White lace like a First Communion dress but with a low neckline to show off your cleavage. We’ll go shopping together! Red heels.” “I don’t know if I can afford that. I’m starting college, and—” “It will be my present. To honor your courage! The new woman!” She was enjoying the anticipation of my deflowering more than I was, and I realized that I could not back out for fear of disappointing her. I changed the subject. “I read your novels. They’re mysterious and beautiful.” “Thank you, Tchrristeenne,” she said, lengthening her embrace of my name. I ventured, “I wondered if you put any of your diary in the novels.” “Yes, the diary is the hothouse from which I pick the most exotic flowers.” She asked me, “Do you want to be a writer?” “That or a famous actress. But I know I’m not pretty enough.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “My father used to tell me I was an ugly child,” she said. “Is that what happened to you?” “How did you know that?” “I sense there are many affinities between us.” She smiled on me.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  In idolizing Anaïs and seeking her reflective gaze of approval, I had allowed her to use me for her own ends. She took far more than my innocence. Yet I sensed that what I’d lost was less valuable than what I’d received: a mentor who shared my particular wound and inspired me to heal it through writing, a guide to owning my sexuality, an inspiration to value my creativity and inner journey, the model of a woman who could soak up so much joy. Thanks to her I didn’t give up hope for both devotion and passion in love. She taught me to embrace good times wholeheartedly when they come and to transcend life’s tragedies through the imagination, as she’d imagined herself in a symphony when dying. She gave me a hand up onto my life’s work, understanding that we are heroines who author our own stories; elect how we see them, choose what they mean, and choose again. Much of who I am came from Anaïs and has served me well. For the wonder of Anaïs was not that she had sunk so low as to commit adult incest; the wonder was how she’d matured since that freakish episode, how she’d expanded into a plenitude of self, accepting the errors and blindnesses as necessary, working diligently on herself, developing and growing to become a wise and compassionate woman who reached out to heal other broken souls. The wonder was that Anaïs, a deeply flawed person—a narcissist, a bigamist, a liar, and a deviant—was so lovable. The wonder was that from such a defective source shone so much light before her diminishment. The sun was fading, and as I returned to treading water, I became alarmed by my chill and exhaustion. Foolishly, Don Quixote chasing a metaphor, I’d swum too far in my grand gesture to say good-bye. I was not a strong swimmer, and nobody knew I was out there. Frantically, I swam in a crawl directly towards shore, but soon was spent. The immensity of the ocean roiled beneath me and tugged. In the distance, I could see the lighted windows of my house and wished I were there instead of in the cold, nacreous water. I remembered my dream where my guru woman stood at the Dutch window, calmly watching me tossed in the waves below. In the dream, I was in those waves but I was also my guiding presence, haloed at the window. Using the glow of those windows as my beacon now, I side-paddled in a switchback, pulled by the beckoning light, following the dream. When I reached the breakers, the moon had risen and the sun was stretched into an ovoid, resisting its eclipse. I gave myself to the crashing surf, elevated on a high wave, rising like flying, cresting in an explosion of foam and bubbles, gliding onto the grit of sand.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘If, Titus, our friendship is such as to enable me to force your acquiescence in any single one of my decisions, or if it can induce you to consent of your own accord, now is the time when I intend to exploit it to the full; and if you are determined to reject my entreaties, I shall use whatever compulsion is necessary to protect the interests of a friend, and to make Sophronia yours. I know the havoc that the powers of Love can inflict, I know they have led, not one, but countless lovers to an unhappy death; and I can see that they have taken so tight a hold upon you that there is no longer any question of your turning back, or of conquering your tears. If you were to go on like this you would perish, in which event there is no doubt that I should speedily follow you. So even if I had no other cause for loving you, your life is precious to me because my own life depends upon it. Sophronia shall be yours, then, for it will not be easy for you to find another that you like nearly so much, whereas I can easily divert my love to some other woman, and then we shall both be satisfied. I should not perhaps be so generous, if wives were so scarce and difficult to find as friends, but since I can find another wife, but not another friend, with the greatest of ease, I prefer, rather than to lose you, not to lose her exactly, but as it were to transfer her. For I shan’t lose her by giving her to you, but simply hand her over to my second self, at the same time changing her lot for the better. So if my entreaties mean anything to you, I entreat you here and now to cast aside your sorrows and bring solace to us both. Take heart, and prepare to enjoy the bliss for which your ardent love is yearning.’ Titus was reluctant to consent to the idea that Sophronia should become his wife, and hence refused at first to have anything to do with it; but being prodded by his love on the one hand, and propelled by his friend’s insistence on the other, he eventually faltered and said:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FOURTH STORY Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi comes from Modena and takes from the tomb the lady he loves, who has been buried for dead. She revives and gives birth to a male child, and later Messer Gentile restores her and the child to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, the lady’s husband. Miraculous indeed did it seem to all those present that anyone should be liberal with his own blood; and everyone agreed that Nathan’s generosity had certainly exceeded that of the King of Spain or the Abbot of Cluny. But after they had debated the matter at some length, the king fixed his gaze on Lauretta, thus showing that he wanted her to tell the next story; and Lauretta began forthwith, as follows: Fair young ladies, so goodly and magnificent are the things we have been told, so fully has the ground already been covered, that those of us who have not yet told our tales would surely be left with no area to explore, unless of course we turn to the deeds of lovers, wherein a most copious supply of tales on any topic is always to be found. For this reason, and also because matters of this sort are especially fascinating for people of our age, I should like to tell you of a generous deed performed by one who was in love. And if it is true that in order to possess the object of their love men will give away whole fortunes, set aside their enmities, and place their lives, their honour, and (what is more important) their reputation in serious jeopardy, then possibly you will conclude, all things considered, that his action was no less striking than some of the ones already described. In Bologna, then, that illustrious city in the Lombard plain, there once lived a gentleman called Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi, 1 distinguished for his valour and noble blood, who whilst still in his youth became enamoured of a gentlewoman, Madonna Catalina by name, who was the wife of a certain Niccoluccio Caccianimico. But because his love for the lady was ill-requited he almost despaired of it and went away to Modena, where he had been appointed to the office of podestà. At the time of which we are speaking, Niccoluccio was absent from Bologna, and his wife, being pregnant, was staying at an estate of his, some three miles distant from the city, where she had the misfortune to contract a sudden and cruel malady, whose effects were so powerful and serious that all sign of life in her was extinguished, and consequently she was adjudged, even by her physicians, to be dead. Since her closest women relatives claimed to have heard from her own lips that she had not been pregnant sufficiently long for the unborn creature to be perfectly formed, they troubled themselves no further on that score, and after shedding many tears, they buried her, just as she was, in a tomb in the local church.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Listen to me,” he said, taking her hand and rubbing the ringless finger where he’d once placed a wedding band. “All these years you’ve felt subordinate because you had to come to me for your allowance. I think I liked it that way. It made me feel important, kingly. But it made you resent me because you saw me as an authoritarian ruler.” “That’s true, Hugo, but I was also so grateful to you. You were such a kind and generous king.” “Now I want to be your equal, though, your fellow artist and companion, so you need to have your own income to manage without me.” What was he saying? Was he cutting her off financially? She had wished to be financially independent so many times. Yet having recently gone over the numbers, she’d figured out that even if Dutton published her next book, and the next, she would not have enough money to live anywhere except the rat-infested beach shack. But Hugo touched her wrist with his long fingers and added, “I’ve set up a separate entity in your name. From the interest, you’ll have $5,000 a year of your own to spend as you wish.” “Why are you doing this?” “I want you to be with me because you want to be, not because you have to be.” It was such an authentic gesture of love. She knew that Hugo could see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Hugo, thank you. I do want to be with you, especially now.” She meant it, even when she later realized that with her own income she could easily purchase plane tickets and pay travel expenses to visit Rupert. Her own money would truly make her free to follow her heart; unexpectedly, her heart had returned to Hugo. CHAPTER 12 Malibu, California, 1964 TRISTINE I HADN’T BEEN EXACTLY BORED with Anaïs’s account of Hugo’s financial finagling, but I wanted her to return to the subject that interested me most. “Did your lovemaking with Hugo get better?” Her dry laugh cracked. “Sex with Hugo was like dancing with a man who can’t keep step. On occasion, to the right tune, he may catch the rhythm, but he will always revert back to his innate clumsiness.” “So if you didn’t like making love with Hugo, why did you wait so long to divorce him? You told me that a woman has an equal right to pleasure as a man.” “Exactly, which is why I continued my affair with Rupert. I needed the affair to sustain my marriage to Hugo, whom I loved as my lifelong partner.” “So did you join Rupert at his cabin in the woods?” She nodded. “What did you tell Hugo?”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Now this Gautier was exceedingly goodly of his body, being maybe forty years old and as agreeable and well-mannered a gentleman as might be; and withal, he was the sprightliest and daintiest cavalier known in those days and he who went most adorned of his person. His countess was dead, leaving him two little children, a boy and a girl, without more, and it befell that, the King of France and his son being at the war aforesaid and Gautier using much at the court of the aforesaid ladies and speaking often with them of the affairs of the kingdom, the wife of the king's son cast her eyes on him and considering his person and his manners with very great affection, was secretly fired with a fervent love for him. Feeling herself young and lusty and knowing him wifeless, she doubted not but her desire might lightly be accomplished unto her and thinking nought hindered her thereof but shamefastness, she bethought herself altogether to put that away and discover to him her passion. Accordingly, being one day alone and it seeming to her time, she sent for him into her chamber, as though she would discourse with him of other matters.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Now, with the shoe in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he searched the bedclothes, the walls, and the floor, finding and thwacking four more of the deadly scorpions. He focused the flashlight’s beam into a corner crack in the stucco. Tiny red eyes gleamed back. “Rats! You have scorpions and rats in your house.” She heard the disgust in his voice. “What do we do?” she said. “It’s too late to go to a hotel.” He dragged the bed out onto the veranda. He ran the flashlight beam over and under the mattress, checking for vermin, and when he was satisfied it was safe he flopped onto the bed and welcomed her into his arms. She lowered herself to him gracefully, feeling him hard against her thigh; he was always ready for her. “You are my hero,” she murmured, making her French accent more pronounced. To reward his bravery, she adored him with her tongue. When he started to turn her over to enter her, she held him in place and mounted him. With his hands on her hips, she rode him, and when she came she threw her head back and saw thousands of glowing globes in the night sky. They slept restlessly until 4 a.m. when the rooster next door started crowing and a man in the house below started coughing. Already Anaïs was disillusioned with the purchase of her casita, and she suggested that they stay the rest of his visit at the El Mirador hotel. There they spent two weeks of sensuality: he studying his textbooks, she writing in her diary, and together snorkeling in the tropical waters. They barely spoke except for the language of the body. Underwater she felt as if she had entered her inner self, the eternal feminine, the silky comfort of the womb. Her body met with Rupert’s, moving without effort in the soft current. No thoughts here, no conflicts, no time, no past, no guilt, no husband—only the dissolution of water, the fluidity of now. He left her cheerfully, having repaired the screens of her little house and rid it of vermin. But when he was gone, her body yearned for him and she could no longer enjoy her solitude or her casita. So when she received a letter from Hugo saying he was coming to Acapulco to visit and that she should make reservations for them at the expensive American hotel, it was not entirely unwelcome. He enclosed a generous money order, enough to pay for a quick round-trip to Los Angeles. With two weeks of freedom until Hugo’s arrival, she telegraphed Rupert that she would be visiting LA on business and booked herself a room at the Coral Sands motel.