ColumnRead a book. Sustain your mind.

I confess that I knew where this was going when I bought Fifty Shades of Grey. One of my rules for this column is that I don’t write bad reviews (if I don’t like a book, I leave it be) and while I hoped to maybe have some fun with the BDSM bodice-ripper, I doubted that I would muster enough like to write about it here. (Having finished the book—the first of the phenom trilogy—I’m proved right. Nothing really to say about it that you probably haven’t already gathered.) But now that I have your attention, here’s the bait and switch: You want hot? Let’s talk Anaïs Nin.

Anyone who’s read Nin’s erotica likely has a vivid memory of their “first time,” as it were. I encountered the work when I was 14 years old. By then I had seen my share of dirty magazines and pre-internet (pre-cable, even) porn and was thus as misinformed and misinspired as any young person would be given such mostly poor data in. Then, in my father’s library, I found an advance copy of Delta of Venus. I read a few pages. Then I read more. This was different. This was beautiful and deep and, yes, perverse—and it was hot. I’ve been a fan ever since.

Most acclaimed for her magnificent and comprehensive diaries, Nin is almost a genre unto herself. Her life and career traversed continents (Europe to North America), cultural and social movements (bohemian Paris in the 1920s to the U.S. feminist movement in the 60s), and featured intimacy with many literary giants (most notably her one-time lover, confidante and friend Henry Miller). For better or worse, her erotic writings—released primarily in two volumes of short stories published posthumously in the late-1970s (Delta of Venus and Little Birds)—have eclipsed her other work in terms of bringing her international notoriety. For many, in fact, the mere whisper of her name—Anaïs—is synonymous with erotica.

She completed the majority of her work in this genre during difficult financial times in the 1940s. A mysterious “collector” contracted her, Miller and a small cadre of their contemporaries to write pornography for him on a fee-per-page basis. All told, Nin claimed she received $100 for these stories. At the time, she was uneasy with the effort, which by order required the group to “leave out the poetry” and “focus on the specifics.” (“Didn’t the old man know how words carry colors and sounds into the flesh?” she laments in the preface of Delta.)

Regardless of the collector’s instructions, Nin was incapable of writing “clinically.” Her language flourishes as, both individually and as a body of work, her erotic tales swerve and soar in and out of the body and the soul, exposing countless emotions while always circling back to a titillated heartbeat. In Nin’s world, roles and role-play do more than arouse the characters and the reader alike—they also beg questions about fantasy and identity. Perversions—exhibitionism and voyeurism, blurred lines between pleasure and pain, and other unmentionables—exist on a razor-thin line between playful light and borderline psychotic darkness. Shades? Nuance? It’s all here.

Conversely, some of the stories depict the suppression of sexual thought as exploding into inhuman violence. (In one very difficult piece featuring a priest at a strict boarding school and his unfortunate charges, a rape is perpetrated in this context.) Indeed, in this work you’ll find a broad exploration of the psychology of sexuality (another story features a hyper-sexualized reaction to a Spanish Fly placebo). The effects of childhood experience, and issues around intimacy and objectification—and the relationship and opposition between them—are pried open. Additionally, in her very powerful short novel, A Spy in the House of Love, Nin focuses on adultery and its relationship to self-exploration.

None of this is to say that Nin’s stories aren’t erotic for eroticism’s sake. The circumstance of their writing is partly responsible for this, although not completely. The author is a woman who was clearly unafraid of not only her own observations of human sexual thinking and behavior, but of herself, as well. Her stories stare at sex. They don’t flinch and they don’t blush (although her characters might). And, perhaps most important, she does not judge.

A Woman’s Language

Despite the stories’ quality, for years Nin carried distaste for them and the patron for whom they were written, and “put the erotica aside.” (“Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone. It becomes a bore.”) Later in her life, however, she began to see the work in a different light. Having once thought that her charge to “leave out the poetry” had resulted in a style that was “derived from a reading of men’s works,” she changed her mind, concluding, “My own voice was not completely suppressed… I was intuitively using a woman’s language, seeing sexual experience from a women’s point of view.” In the end, she seemed to see her own irrepressible voice (I’ll call it brilliance) shining through the perverted (I use the term advisedly) challenge. The collections, she determined, would be published.

Nin’s wrestling with her erotica begs all sorts of questions. As much as some of us might want to see great work as simply great, voice, theme and even plot are all inexorably (though I think too often seen as overwhelmingly) informed by gender—and certainly by individuality. Nin felt this was particularly true when it came to writing about sex:

I knew there was a great disparity between Henry Miller’s explicitness and my ambiguities—between his humorous, Rabelaisian view of sex and my poetic descriptions of sexual relationships… I had a feeling that Pandora’s box contained the mysteries of woman’s sensuality, so different from a man’s and for which man’s language was inadequate.

Indeed, there’s another story here, for another time, which explores why women and men handle erotica so differently (as writers as well as readers). In any case, legions of fans of every sex and sexual orientation will attest to that fact that Nin holds up well for anyone who wants to explore the genre—though each reader will, of course, experience the work through his or her own particular lens. (Now is a good time, I suppose, for “the warning”: Anaïs Nin’s erotica is not for everyone.)

With respect to E.L. James and her wildly successful Fifty Shades trilogy, it’s not really fair to make a comparison to Nin (and from what I understand, she makes no claims to literary gianthood). And to be more than fair (call it diplomatic), bravo to her for getting her novels out there—and if she has succeeded in stirring up a sexually languid reading populace, that’s no small accomplishment. And know this: Writing erotica is difficult. Describing the Big It and the Big O (et al) can challenge the most generous of vocabularies as well as the most fanciful style. But this once again speaks to Nin’s dominance in the genre: She somehow manages to never throw out single a line that will leave you laughing at its triteness. (If you laugh, it’s because she wants you to. There are no accidents in her work.)

Further, if you want to argue that Nin’s pieces are simply short abstracts when compared to the thrust (pardon me) of the bodice-ripper approach to the sensual, I have to say Nin scores here again—her collections are utterly absorbing. Intrigue abounds, characters appear and reappear throughout the work, themes are opened, danced around, poked at and examined from myriad angles. As short story collections, Delta of Venus and Little Birds really hold up well; these are books you will not skim.

Finally (and perhaps of course), Nin even circles back on the genre itself and explores the role of erotica in (some of) our lives. In Delta, her character Elena opens D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The description of Elena’s experience with the novel might have you believe that Nin was speaking directly to the audience that James’ Fifty Shades seems to have tapped into:

[Elena] discovered that she had never known the sensations described by Lawrence, and second, that this was the nature of her hunger. But there was another truth she was now fully aware of. Something had created in her a state of perpetual defense against the very possibilities of experience, an urge for flight which took her away from the scenes of pleasure and expansion. She had stood many times on the very edge, and then had run away. She herself was to blame for what she had lost, ignored.

It was the submerged woman of Lawrence’s book that lay coiled within her, at last exposed, sensitized, prepared as if by a multitude of caresses for the arrival of someone.

Yes. Yes.

Delta of Venus, 1978, and Little Birds, 1979

The two celebrated collections written for the infamous patron who famously instructed, “Leave out the poetry,” are nothing if not poetic. Infused with sexual philosophy, moral ambiguity and emotional exploration, perversion accompanies the lovely, objectification dances with intimacy, and sensuality erupts from both the loving and the painful. Whether strong and rich archetypes or bundles of unpredictable subtlety, the characters are riveting as we watch them dare to push themselves—and us as willing voyeurs—to the edges of sexual exploration.

A Spy in the House of Love, 1954

The novel emerges from the mind of Sabina, a married woman involved in a number of adulterous affairs, who sees herself a “spy” or witness to her own experiences. Nin’s dreamy, yet unflinching style (that also lends itself so well her erotic writings) creates an intense psychological atmosphere, where the reader crawls inside the thought processes and sensitivities of a woman as she betrays the man she loves in order to explore her own personal nuances. An ethereal, semi-autobiographical tale that offers an intimate view into a woman’s complicated life. (Excerpted from “10 Must-Read Books for Girls and Boys, by Boys and Girls.”)

Editor’s note: News & Culture contributor Scott Adelson’s biweekly column, InPRINT, reviews and discusses books new and old, as well as examines issues in publishing.

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InPrint: On the Road, Again – Revisiting Jack Kerouac

Images: myjustliving, hoodedutilitarian, goodreads, moniquespassions

The post InPRINT: You Want Erotic? The Countless Shades of Anaïs Nin appeared first on EcoSalon.

EcoSalon recently published the hit article, “20 Must Read Books for Women,” in which you probably noticed a few books you’ve read and a few others that you’d like to read, as well. What you might have also noticed was that the list included no books written by men.

Might there be must-reads for women written by male authors? We’re not talking about tomes that you’d file under the “how to better understand the blue side of the species” (read: self-help for guys, porn, or maybe bios on Messrs. Churchill or Jordan). Just solid works, by men, that might be of such great value to a female audience that someone might place them in the “don’t miss” bin.

Continuing the series of must read books, we’re offering an addendum our previous list and presenting five books written by men that we think would be great for women readers. And as a yin to our yang, noting that the guys ought to be reading more essentials by women, we’re also offering five books written by women that would do well on any man’s bookshelf.

Five books for women, written by men:

1. The Garden of Eden – Ernest Hemingway

(Paperback)/(Kindle)

Bravado and bulls have had Papa pegged as guy’s writer going back to “The Sun Also Rises” (1926) and Jake Barnes’ classic last line to Lady Brett Ashley: “Isn’t it pretty to think so.” But Ernest Hemingway remains a quintessential American master, whose crisp, quick sentences act as simple brush stokes to create unflinchingly real and complex images, relationships and storylines. In “The Garden of Eden” (published posthumously in 1986) he shows a depth and tenderness that’s unburdened by Great War or greater fish. Here, Hemingway tells the tale of a love triangle, androgyny and gender reversal, putting down his gloves and allowing access to a wide(r?) range of readers into his inimitable world and style.

2. The World According to Garp – John Irving 

(Paperback)

In his 1978 classic “The World According to Garp,” John Irving’s  male hero navigates an obstacle course of a life chock full of tricky sexual relations, male vulnerability and ignorance, and sometimes extreme feminism. The book features bold, loving and dangerous female characters (as well as a fantastic cross-dressing nurse), who surround Garp as he struggles to find his place in life and tell his story. Irving handles characters of both sexes extraordinarily well, displaying an ambidexterity that’s not easy to come by and speaks to the difficultly of making book suggestions like these difficult in the first place.

3. True Grit – Charles Portis

(Paperback)

A classic western with uncharacteristic depth, Charles Portis’ “True Grit” (1968) lacks none of gun-slinging, foul language and, yes, grit of the greatest American entries in this genre. Its character sensitivities and ambiguities, however, are seldom seen in such novels, save perhaps in that of the work of the great Cormac McCarthy (“All the Pretty Horses,” “Blood Meridian,” “No Country for Old Men”). Unlike McCarthy, Portis’ bleak landscape offers up a sad humor regarding the human condition, as heroine Mattie Ross recalls the great adventure of her childhood in which she seeks to avenge the death of her father with the help renegade lawmen. Read the book before seeing the Coen brothers’ super remake of the John Wayne classic.

4. Brief Interviews with Hideous Men – David Foster Wallace

(Paperback)

There’s been a lot of talk lately about the current generation of male authors’ inability to deal with sex and sexual issues. Some, like NYU’s Katie Roiphe, point to a reactive, “wimping out” of the sensitive male, a “new purity” of “self-conscious paralysis.” David Foster Wallace, however, had a knack for staring down our culture on many issues, including sexual relations. In this 1998 collection of short stories (a number of which bear the book’s title), Wallace explores many modern themes, including sexual alienation. Never an easy read, Wallace is always worth the effort. His short stories and essays are an excellent way access to his work and an alternative for those who are reticent to scale his dense masterpiece, “Infinite Jest.”

5. American Pastoral – Philip Roth

(Paperback)/(Kindle)

Up there with Norman Mailer as the male writer most consistently pummeled for unrepentant misogyny, big bad Philip Roth’s primal scream of “Portnoy’s Complaint” (his celebrated 1969 novel that so prevalently featured its main character’s penis) has softened into an older, wiser, sadder sigh in this masterwork. It’s not so much that Roth seems to have rethought his view of the relationship between men and women, per se, but more like the evidence is in that, as his characters have aged, infatuation with that issue is somehow beside the point – and was perhaps a red herring all along. Here, a man’s traditional middle class experience is upended by the historical elements and trace madness that weaved their way through the American landscape in second half of 20th century.

And five books for men, written by women:

6. The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood

(Paperback)/(Kindle)

Margaret Atwood’s dystopian masterpiece (which made our previous must-read list) presents a futuristic nightmare for all women, where a male-dominated extremist faction has taken over the nation and created a world where women are forbidden to read, work, or have their own name; their roles, from servant to child bearer, are determined by the men who control their lives. The chilling effect of the story is made more severe by the tone of Atwood’s prose that offers emotions and imagery of true fear in a world whose potential “realness” (think a Western version of Taliban Afghanistan) will make any reader shudder.

7. A Visit from the Goon Squad – Jennifer Egan

(Paperback)/(Kindle)

Magnificent craftsmanship and a unique use of postmodern technique give Jennifer Egan’s recent novel (2010) a cross-time, cross-genre sensibility, and a certain humanity that one might find lacking in the cooler works of Don DeLillo, Paul Auster and other well-known, male postmodern masters. Egan’s book opens with story of a kleptomaniac woman and jumps from chapter to chapter, with each one bringing a seemingly ancillary character into the spotlight without regard to chronology or consistency of style. What emerges is a sense of realism and emotional breadth that could not come from a simple “once-upon-a-time” experience.

8. The Young Romantics – Daisy Hay

(Paperback)/(Kindle)

Our lists’ only non-fiction entry is a biographical work that not only reexamines the lives of some history’s most famous men, but does so in the context of the women who shared their lives, offering up a new, more accurate approach to the entire genre. Daisy Hay looks at Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lord Byron and the other Romantic Era authors, examining  their lives as unified matrix, rather than as purely individual stories, showing how their interpersonal relationships affected both their creative and personal selves. Mary Shelley, the author of “Frankenstein” (a certain contender for this half of our list) is in fact the epicenter of the story, lending a more feminist (and in this case accurate) approach to exploring the period. Most important, though, is that the book is just a great read, with the feel of excellent historical fiction. Really, you can’t make this stuff up.

9. Death Comes for the Archbishop – Willa Cather

Paperback/(Kindle)

Willa Cather’s evokes the emerging American West by eliciting depth and complexity from basic character archetypes to capture a sense of the nation in a uniquely powerful manner. “Death Comes for the Archbishop” (1927) tells the story of two men, Bishop Jean Marie Latour (an intellectual “tower”) and his friend Father Joseph Vaillant (a valiant defender of the faith) who are charged with taking over a Spanish diocese in New Mexico after the territory is acquired by the United States. The works taps into the relationship between ideas and the frontier landscape and as such rings true as an authentic American tale without swollen bravado and fanfare.

10. A Spy in the House of Love – Anais Nin

(Paperback)/(Kindle)

Anais Nin’s 1954 novel emerges from the mind of Sabina, a married woman involved in a number of adulterous affairs, who sees herself a spy or witness to her own experiences. Nin’s dreamy, yet unflinching  style (that also lends itself so well her erotic writings) creates a intense psychological atmosphere, where the reader crawls inside the thought processes and sensitivities of a woman as she betrays the man she loves in order to explore her own personal nuances. Inside info, guys? Maybe. An ethereal, semi-autobiographical tale that offers an intimate view into a woman’s complicated life.

Main Image: Valerie Everett

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