4/8/49
This afternoon, I heard a lecture on "The Function of Art and the Artist" by Anaïs Nin: she is very startling — pixie-like, other-worldly — small, finely-built, dark hair, and much make-up which made her look very pale — large, questioning eyes—a marked accent which I could not label — her speech is over-precise — she shines and polishes each syllable with the very tip of her tongue and teeth — one feels that if one were to touch her, she would crumble into silver dust.
Her theory of art was preciously intangible (discovery-of-the-unconscious, automatic-writing, revolt-against-our-mechanistic-civilization)—She was analyzed by Otto Rank.
4/14/49
I read [Djuna Barnes's] Nightwood yesterday — What a great prose she writes — That is the way I want to write — rich and rhythmic — heavy, sonorous prose that befits those mythic ambiguities that are both source and structure to an aesthetic experience symbolized by language —
4/16/49
I read the major part of [Dostoyevsky's] The Brothers Karamazov and suddenly feel frantically impure. I wrote three letters to Peter and Audrey completely severing those relationships and to Mother, semi-declaring my revulsion for the past —
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