I’m not at all surprised Anaïs Nin: A Sea of Lies by Léonie Bischoff is a European import (translated by Jenna Allen). It pretty much has to be, given the subject matter: a woman as famous for whom she slept with as what she wrote, and when she wrote, her work involved sex and desire. (Plus, a lot of biographical comics seem to start outside the US.)
What struck me most about this graphic biography, though, was its style. It looks as though it was drawn with one of those pencils I remember from art class, those with multiple colors of lead swirled together. Probably not, but the lines have so much color, with any given figure portrayed in different shades of navy and amber. The whole thing feels glazed, as seen through glass or water, dream-like and unreal, which adds another layer of interpretation to this historical tale about a storyteller.
Nin was relatively happily married, it seems, to a banker, but her relationship lacked passion. She kept a diary — two, actually, one appropriate to share with her husband if necessary, and one private, full of fantasy and scandalous secrets.
She meets and eventually sleeps with fellow writer Henry Miller while being fascinated with his wife June. But she also has intimate encounters with a publisher, her flamenco teacher, her cousin, her psychoanalyst, and her abusive father. Just about every man she meets, according to this.
She and Miller work together, but he tries to make her write like him. She responds, “Every man who reads my writing tries to ‘fix’ it. I’m not interested in writing like a man.”
Nin understands the appeal and purpose of fantasy and romanticism. She doesn’t want to destroy, only to dream. In spite of the prurient and/or erotic content, that is what will stick with me about the writer. A gorgeous, provocative, thought-inspiring book.
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