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 los angeles 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 los angeles matière même de son œuvre, de sa vie.
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Additional resources for Anaïs Nin, masquée, si nue
He buried his face in the sweet slope of her throat, cupped her breasts with their impudent velvet nipples, kissed her so hard they were both panting when he pulled his mouth from her. Part of him thought, even as he put his hands on her, his mouth on her, that she must be frightened indeed to give herself to him, a woman who had starved herself and gone without clothes to show her contempt for him. He made a last, heroic effort. "You can't leave," he growled, then bit her earlobe, and wondered how he could make himself leave her with his cock on fire and her musk in his nostrils.
He didn't answer, and she was about to try again when she felt his tongue flick past the opening of her vagina . . then delve deeply. She bit back a moan and thought, What the hell am I hiding from? I love it, and he knows I love it. When his thumbs spread her wide and his tongue lapped at her exposed flesh, she groaned so loudly she was fairly certain Moira, wherever she was, could hear her. He laughed at the sound, a rumble of unbridled delight, and then his tongue was inside her again, darting and wriggling.
He let go of her so abruptly she staggered. Then he stepped back, pulled out a gun, and shot her in the throat. *** Jared watched the gorgeous blonde topple over and had to fight a sigh of relief. Cripes, what a balls-up! He hadn't thought she'd ever go down. His own damned fault—he was so worried about really hurting her he'd gone too easy. Hadn't had the heart to give her a really firm slam. And he'd paid the price: his nose was still streaming blood. ), but now what? After years of research, of greasing palms, of knocking skulls together, of doing anything to get the information he needed, finally, finally, he had the murdering bastards cornered.