Anaïs instructed her in the art of applying false eyelashes
Gregor Dallas's book of Paris anecdotes, Metrostop Paris (very loosely based on the metro system) has a great chapter on Anaïs Nin, a writer I used to love, then decided was overrated, and now rather appreciate again. The story is mainly about her affair with Otto Rank, and fascinating it is too. But in the middle of it, a name appeared which I did not expect:
Anaïs spent much of her energy trying to get Henry's first novel, The Tropic of Cancer, published; her chief link here was Rebecca West who kept a posh place in London and cultivated relations with the grand London literary agent, A. D. Peters. But nobody seemed to appreciate Henry's efforts; Rebecca told Anaïs that she wrote better, and that is what Anaïs thought, too.
Rebecca West! In connection with Anaïs Nin of all people....I was delighted and amazed. I know I keep talking about her, but the more time goes by since I finished Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, the more I am convinced it's one of the very greatest works of the twentieth century. You know the way some books are amazing when you read them, but then sort of diminish in your mind later, whereas others keep growing? This is one of the latter.
Anyway. So I pulled down my copy of Deirdre Bair's not-especially-well-liked biography of Anaïs Nin, which I read years ago and which apparently I have forgotten. It was interesting to see that West's admiration of Nin's writing was not reciprocal: apparently Anaïs thought West wrote ‘like a man and I don't like it’. No surprise there - Rebecca West thought that whether you were male or female should be a trivial concern in life, and no concern at all in literature; whereas Anaïs Nin thought women should dedicate their lives to creative male geniuses and write accordingly. Thinking about it, it's amazing they didn't explode in some antimatter singularity when they came together.
The story of how they met is a wonderful demonstration of both their characters: West concisely brilliant, Anaïs totally bonkers. This is how Bair tells it:
[Anaïs Nin] first wrote to the English critic and novellist Rebecca West in the autumn of 1932, after West had written brief praise for her book on Lawrence. Anaïs read West's most recent novel, Harriet Hume, and sent a letter of appreciation, thanking West in return for hers. West did not reply. Nin waited a month, then write again, saying she rarely sought out strangers, but having read Harriet Hume, seeking to know its author was a ‘logical outcome’. Once more, West did not reply.
In March 1934, Anaïs wrote yet again, asking West if she would read Henry's Lawrence book and recommend it to a British publisher. This time West replied with a two-word cable: ‘Why? How?’ Incredibly, it was all the encouragement Anaïs needed to go to London. She persuaded Hugo [her husband] to give her enough money for a week's stay and went at once.
Their accounts of the meeting differ somewhat. The way West remembers it,
Despite West's best efforts not to receive it, Anaïs succeeded in presenting her with Henry's Lawrence manuscript. She read a few pages and decided it was ‘a farrago of nonsense’, but she liked Anaïs, and feeling sorry for her, all alone in London, gave an impromptu dinner party, took her to the theater to see Charles Laughton's Othello, and invited her to a family lunch. ‘We gave her a full and happy four days,’ West recalled, ‘and as she was a total stranger I don't think I did badly for her.’
Anaïs's account consumes many pages in her unpublished diary, starting with [...] her initial impression of West as ‘Pola Negri without beauty and English teeth....She is deeply uneasy. She's intimidated by me.’ Anaïs said that at luncheon, she was ‘more and more disillusioned by [West's] sexlessness, her domesticity and by her last book on St. Augustine....Naturally she admired Henry's book on Lawrence and passed over Black Spring in silence.’
It was Rebecca West who seemed to make Anaïs first realise that she could write better than most of the men she was blowing on a semi-regular basis.
Rebecca supposedly said, ‘[...] you're a so much better writer than [Henry Miller] is, so much more mature.’ ‘I was mute with surprise [Anaïs says in her diary]....It stunned me. No, she must be prejudiced. NO, NO. She's wrong.’ Later, she added, ‘Henry will never forgive me for this - if he knew. I realized suddenly that Henry would not want me greater.’
The two of them became quite good friends. West took Anaïs to a dinner party in her (West's) honour in New York, but Anaïs ended up pulling Norman Bel Geddes over cocktails and launching a brief affair, which didn't go down too well. Still, West ended up visiting her in France the next year, and they had a little holiday together which is frankly rather difficult to image:
She read Anaïs's burgeoning manuscript and made thoughtful comments; Anaïs instructed her in the art of applying false eyelashes and mascara. The two women painted each other's nails and compared their analyses, their husbands, and their lovers.
Rebecca West and Anaïs Nin painting each other's nails? Unlikely Scenes From Literary History #54887.
In the end, as with most people, Anaïs pushed Rebecca away. When she came to publish her famous diaries, RW asked for all references to her to be removed on threat of legal procedings. In the proofs, which West sent to her lawyer, there was a long section in which West supposedly confessed to being sexually abused by her own father. West recognised this as being, of course, Anaïs own ‘latent, highly disguised, sexual fantasy’ - Nin really did seduce her own father, and she replays the scenario endlessly in her work and her diaries.
‘What do I do about this?’ West wrote to her lawyer. ‘Where should I park a disclaimer of all this nonsense?’
Two fascinating people. I'm pleased they interacted.
Anaïs spent much of her energy trying to get Henry's first novel, The Tropic of Cancer, published; her chief link here was Rebecca West who kept a posh place in London and cultivated relations with the grand London literary agent, A. D. Peters. But nobody seemed to appreciate Henry's efforts; Rebecca told Anaïs that she wrote better, and that is what Anaïs thought, too.
Rebecca West! In connection with Anaïs Nin of all people....I was delighted and amazed. I know I keep talking about her, but the more time goes by since I finished Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, the more I am convinced it's one of the very greatest works of the twentieth century. You know the way some books are amazing when you read them, but then sort of diminish in your mind later, whereas others keep growing? This is one of the latter.
Anyway. So I pulled down my copy of Deirdre Bair's not-especially-well-liked biography of Anaïs Nin, which I read years ago and which apparently I have forgotten. It was interesting to see that West's admiration of Nin's writing was not reciprocal: apparently Anaïs thought West wrote ‘like a man and I don't like it’. No surprise there - Rebecca West thought that whether you were male or female should be a trivial concern in life, and no concern at all in literature; whereas Anaïs Nin thought women should dedicate their lives to creative male geniuses and write accordingly. Thinking about it, it's amazing they didn't explode in some antimatter singularity when they came together.
The story of how they met is a wonderful demonstration of both their characters: West concisely brilliant, Anaïs totally bonkers. This is how Bair tells it:
[Anaïs Nin] first wrote to the English critic and novellist Rebecca West in the autumn of 1932, after West had written brief praise for her book on Lawrence. Anaïs read West's most recent novel, Harriet Hume, and sent a letter of appreciation, thanking West in return for hers. West did not reply. Nin waited a month, then write again, saying she rarely sought out strangers, but having read Harriet Hume, seeking to know its author was a ‘logical outcome’. Once more, West did not reply.
In March 1934, Anaïs wrote yet again, asking West if she would read Henry's Lawrence book and recommend it to a British publisher. This time West replied with a two-word cable: ‘Why? How?’ Incredibly, it was all the encouragement Anaïs needed to go to London. She persuaded Hugo [her husband] to give her enough money for a week's stay and went at once.
Their accounts of the meeting differ somewhat. The way West remembers it,
Despite West's best efforts not to receive it, Anaïs succeeded in presenting her with Henry's Lawrence manuscript. She read a few pages and decided it was ‘a farrago of nonsense’, but she liked Anaïs, and feeling sorry for her, all alone in London, gave an impromptu dinner party, took her to the theater to see Charles Laughton's Othello, and invited her to a family lunch. ‘We gave her a full and happy four days,’ West recalled, ‘and as she was a total stranger I don't think I did badly for her.’
Anaïs's account consumes many pages in her unpublished diary, starting with [...] her initial impression of West as ‘Pola Negri without beauty and English teeth....She is deeply uneasy. She's intimidated by me.’ Anaïs said that at luncheon, she was ‘more and more disillusioned by [West's] sexlessness, her domesticity and by her last book on St. Augustine....Naturally she admired Henry's book on Lawrence and passed over Black Spring in silence.’
It was Rebecca West who seemed to make Anaïs first realise that she could write better than most of the men she was blowing on a semi-regular basis.
Rebecca supposedly said, ‘[...] you're a so much better writer than [Henry Miller] is, so much more mature.’ ‘I was mute with surprise [Anaïs says in her diary]....It stunned me. No, she must be prejudiced. NO, NO. She's wrong.’ Later, she added, ‘Henry will never forgive me for this - if he knew. I realized suddenly that Henry would not want me greater.’
The two of them became quite good friends. West took Anaïs to a dinner party in her (West's) honour in New York, but Anaïs ended up pulling Norman Bel Geddes over cocktails and launching a brief affair, which didn't go down too well. Still, West ended up visiting her in France the next year, and they had a little holiday together which is frankly rather difficult to image:
She read Anaïs's burgeoning manuscript and made thoughtful comments; Anaïs instructed her in the art of applying false eyelashes and mascara. The two women painted each other's nails and compared their analyses, their husbands, and their lovers.
Rebecca West and Anaïs Nin painting each other's nails? Unlikely Scenes From Literary History #54887.
In the end, as with most people, Anaïs pushed Rebecca away. When she came to publish her famous diaries, RW asked for all references to her to be removed on threat of legal procedings. In the proofs, which West sent to her lawyer, there was a long section in which West supposedly confessed to being sexually abused by her own father. West recognised this as being, of course, Anaïs own ‘latent, highly disguised, sexual fantasy’ - Nin really did seduce her own father, and she replays the scenario endlessly in her work and her diaries.
‘What do I do about this?’ West wrote to her lawyer. ‘Where should I park a disclaimer of all this nonsense?’
Two fascinating people. I'm pleased they interacted.