This celebrated volume begins when Nin is about to publish her first book and ends when she leaves Paris for New York. Edited and with a Preface by Gunther tuhlmann; Index.
The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that I expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated. ''
Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to Dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We... (查看原文)
Louveciennes resembles the village where Madame Bovary lived and died. It is old, untouched and unchanged by modern life. It is built on a hill overlooking the Seine. On clear nights one can see Paris. It has an old church dominating a group of small houses, cobblestone streets, and several large properties, manor houses, a castle on the outskirts of the village. One of the properties belonged to Madame du Barry. During the revolution her lover was guillotined and his head thrown over the ivy-covered wall into her garten. This is now the property of Coty. (查看原文)
The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a height...
2013-07-27 17:431人喜欢
The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that I expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated. ''
Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to Dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We incite each other to jazz-up our rhythm.引自 Vol I
The hero of this book may be the soul, but it is an odyssey from the inner to the outer world, and it is Henry who is dispelling the fogs of shyness, of solitude, taking me through the street, and keeping me in a cafe - until dawn. Before Henry, I thought art was the paradise, not human life, that in art alone could pain become an abstraction. It was a man's way of mastering pain, to put art an...
2013-07-27 17:39
The hero of this book may be the soul, but it is an odyssey from the inner to the outer world, and it is Henry who is dispelling the fogs of shyness, of solitude, taking me through the street, and keeping me in a cafe - until dawn.
Before Henry, I thought art was the paradise, not human life, that in art alone could pain become an abstraction.
It was a man's way of mastering pain, to put art and space and time and history and philosophy between himself and human life.
Art was the prescription for sanity and relief from the terrors and pains of human life.引自 Vol I
Henry is no Proust, lingeringly tasting all things; he lives by gusts, by leaps. He never stops to understand; he disperses his time and energy with prodigality. Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.
2013-07-25 13:00
Henry is no Proust, lingeringly tasting all things; he lives by gusts, by leaps. He never stops to understand; he disperses his time and energy with prodigality.
Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction. 引自 Vol I
For me, he is a living force, not a destructive one. I am amazed how many streets he can walk in a day, how many letters he can write, how many books he can read, how many people he can talk to, how many caes he can sit in, how many movies he can see, how many exhibitions. He is like a torrent in continuous movement.
2013-07-25 12:58
For me, he is a living force, not a destructive one.
I am amazed how many streets he can walk in a day, how many letters he can write, how many books he can read, how many people he can talk to, how many caes he can sit in, how many movies he can see, how many exhibitions. He is like a torrent in continuous movement. 引自 Vol I
''The diary taught me that it is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately. I learned to choose the heightened moments because they are the moments ot revelation.
2013-07-25 05:58
''The diary taught me that it is in the moments of emotional crisis that human beings reveal themselves most accurately. I learned to choose the heightened moments because they are the moments ot revelation.引自 Vol I
Louveciennes resembles the village where Madame Bovary lived and died. It is old, untouched and unchanged by modern life. It is built on a hill overlooking the Seine. On clear nights one can see Paris. It has an old church dominating a group of small houses, cobblestone streets, and several large properties, manor houses, a castle on the outskirts of the village. One of the properties belonged ...
2013-06-19 04:15
Louveciennes resembles the village where Madame Bovary lived and died. It is old, untouched and unchanged by modern life. It is built on a hill overlooking the Seine. On clear nights one can see Paris. It has an old church dominating a group of small houses, cobblestone streets, and several large properties, manor houses, a castle on the outskirts of the village. One of the properties belonged to Madame du Barry. During the revolution her lover was guillotined and his head thrown over the ivy-covered wall into her garten. This is now the property of Coty. 引自第145页
The garden smells of honeysuckle in the summer, of wet leaves in the winter. One hears the whistle of the small train from and to Paris. It is a train which looks ancient, as if it were still carring the personages of Proust's novels to dine in the country.
2013-06-19 04:20
The garden smells of honeysuckle in the summer, of wet leaves in the winter. One hears the whistle of the small train from and to Paris. It is a train which looks ancient, as if it were still carring the personages of Proust's novels to dine in the country.引自第151页
I chose the house for many reasons. Because it seemed to have sprouted out of the earth like a tree, so deeply grooved it was within the old garden. It had no cellar and the rooms rested right on the ground. Below the rug, I felt, was the earth. I could take root here, feel at one with the house and the garden, take nourishment from them like the plants.
2013-06-19 04:43
I chose the house for many reasons.
Because it seemed to have sprouted out of the earth like a tree, so deeply grooved it was within the old garden. It had no cellar and the rooms rested right on the ground. Below the rug, I felt, was the earth. I could take root here, feel at one with the house and the garden, take nourishment from them like the plants.引自第164页
The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a height...
2013-07-27 17:431人喜欢
The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that I expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated. ''
Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to Dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We incite each other to jazz-up our rhythm.引自 Vol I
The hero of this book may be the soul, but it is an odyssey from the inner to the outer world, and it is Henry who is dispelling the fogs of shyness, of solitude, taking me through the street, and keeping me in a cafe - until dawn. Before Henry, I thought art was the paradise, not human life, that in art alone could pain become an abstraction. It was a man's way of mastering pain, to put art an...
2013-07-27 17:39
The hero of this book may be the soul, but it is an odyssey from the inner to the outer world, and it is Henry who is dispelling the fogs of shyness, of solitude, taking me through the street, and keeping me in a cafe - until dawn.
Before Henry, I thought art was the paradise, not human life, that in art alone could pain become an abstraction.
It was a man's way of mastering pain, to put art and space and time and history and philosophy between himself and human life.
Art was the prescription for sanity and relief from the terrors and pains of human life.引自 Vol I
Henry is no Proust, lingeringly tasting all things; he lives by gusts, by leaps. He never stops to understand; he disperses his time and energy with prodigality. Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.
2013-07-25 13:00
Henry is no Proust, lingeringly tasting all things; he lives by gusts, by leaps. He never stops to understand; he disperses his time and energy with prodigality.
Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction. 引自 Vol I
For me, he is a living force, not a destructive one. I am amazed how many streets he can walk in a day, how many letters he can write, how many books he can read, how many people he can talk to, how many caes he can sit in, how many movies he can see, how many exhibitions. He is like a torrent in continuous movement.
2013-07-25 12:58
For me, he is a living force, not a destructive one.
I am amazed how many streets he can walk in a day, how many letters he can write, how many books he can read, how many people he can talk to, how many caes he can sit in, how many movies he can see, how many exhibitions. He is like a torrent in continuous movement. 引自 Vol I
The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated ''dose'' o life. I said, almost indignantly, ''That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a height...
还没人写过短评呢
还没人写过短评呢