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Gender and the Erotica of Anaïs Nin

To be lost in a woman's sexuality is
to be truly lost (McMahon, 352).
I have dipped into obscenity, dirt, and
[Henry Miller's] world of 'shit, cunt, prick,
bastard, crotch, bitch' and am on the way up
again —Anaïs Nin (Henry and June, 49). 1

As with all writers, Anaïs Nin's gender is integral to her style of writing. This is especially true in relation to her erotica (which is also called pornography by some critics). Although Nin is a lesser known author, she has gained a strong following among critics in recent years, due to her innovative approach and the fact that she was the first woman to truly write erotica from a female perspective (as opposed to merely emulating a masculine style).

Her search for the proper author gender is exhibited in her writings, such as Delta of Venus and A Spy in the House of Love. But this quest is also prevalent in her personal life and relationships (as told in her diaries). This perspective is part of what makes her a worthwhile and interesting subject for discussion.

The fact that Nin wrote about sex is also of interest if viewed through the work of Foucault. In his History of Sexuality: An Introduction, Foucault presents sex as a form of discourse. He also asserts that sex pervades all aspects of a person's life. Because sex in his opinion is discourse, the connection between writing and sex becomes concrete. (Sedgwick, 279-80) It is this capacity for sex to color all aspects of a person's life, as well as the intimate relationship shared by sex and writings, that makes gender influences inescapable in a person's written work. Gender, in a sense, creates a sort of community of people (in Nin's case, females), and therefore it is "a vital element of identity that a writer, reader, or critic must at the very least acknowledge" (Stimpson, 263).

In discussing erotica and the differing writing styles of men and women, it is important to delineate the differences in pornography and erotica. Probably the most notable differences between the two genres is the concept of suggestiveness. Erotic writings tend to readily employ euphemisms and metaphors. It tends to allude to sexual acts or veil them in softened language: "we want the thing but instead we get a glimpse of it as it disappears."

Pornography, on the other hand, focuses on blunt sexual acts and, therefore, uses frank, often coarse, language to do so. (Schwichtenberg, 26-27). Nin, in her essay on "Eroticism in Women," distinguishes between erotica and pornography: Pornography "bestializes sexuality[...]treats [it] grotesquely to bring it back to the animal level." Eroticism, on the other hand, "arouses sensuality without this need to animalize it." ("Eroticism," 8)

By this definition, it seems that traditional male sexual writings are pornography because they lack the veiled quality of emotional language that dominates feminine writing. Without emotion and euphemism, sexual writings are deemed pornographic. Papachristou asserts that women realize that "language is often inadequate. Writing love scenes requires reinventing language, reinventing writing" (62). Conventional male sexual writings are not malleable enough to allow for this sort of vacillation between pure words and expressions of feelings.

The original reasons that Nin wrote erotica were not self- glorifying; the works were not the products of a woman challenging the role of the female author in a patriarchal society. Nin fell in love with the works of Henry Miller (who also happened to be one of her several lovers). However, Miller's books were deemed non- publishable by most critics and he was, therefore, destitute. Unable to support himself, Nin made it her job to take care of Miller's monetary needs.

Miller had received a commission from a book collector to write erotic stories (at $100 a month) for a special customer. Though who this customer was, neither Nin nor Miller ever knew. Unfortunately, Miller decided that such work was beneath him.

He rebelled because his mood at the

moment was the opposite of Rabelaisian,

because writing to order was a castrating

operation, because writing with a voyeur

at the keyhole took all the spontaneity

and pleasure out of his fanciful

adventure (D3, 33).

(Although, apparently, Miller was not deft at erotic writing either.) Miller was also concerned that there was no "customer" and that the book collector was asking him to write the stories as a part of an "obscene joke" (Brennan 67).

In Nin's opinion, "It seemed like a Dantesque punishment to condemn Henry to write erotica at a dollar a page" (D3, 33). Unbeknownst to the collector, Nin decided to take the job at Henry's request (Brennan, 67), engaging in what she would later term "literary prostitution." She was not comfortable with the prospect of authoring sexually-oriented works. In fact, she was concerned about what such behavior (writing pornography, that is) would do to her reputation as a literary writer. She felt she had "put aside her 'real writing' when she 'set out in search of the erotic.'" In this statement, Nin's "latent anxiety [is made] quite obvious." (Kamboureli, 146) However, she returned to the erotic writing whenever Miller suggested she do so, usually because he needed her to finance his travel expenses (D3, 57).

To help alleviate some of the stigma she had attached to this type of writing, Nin would discuss possible plots with her artist friends in the cafes of Paris. She used the famous names of her collaborators, Henry Miller and Lawrence Durrell for example, in order to preserve her own reputation as a serious female writer. In this manner, Nin was able to protect her image from being marred by pornography. However, because of this group contribution, it is almost impossible to tell which stories were actually the ideas of Nin herself and which she borrowed at the suggestions of other people (Brennan, 75).

Eventually, Nin becomes comfortable with the manner of writing erotica. Although demands are constantly thrust upon her (the collector's incessant "less poetry and more sex" and Henry's constant entreaties for more money), her writing manages to maintain an air of delight and freedom. Nin begins to view herself, not as a whore, but a "madame in a literary house of prostitution" (Brennan, 67). She realized that, in her writings, she is the one in control; she is not a prostitute without any authority. Anaïs Nin "balanced the two worlds — earth and imagination—[and] began to produce almost a book a year." Later in life, she admitted that all her works "diary and fiction, the poetry and earth, [were] in harmony." ("Being," 24). Societal pressures were no longer a major concern in her life.

Throughout her career, Anaïs Nin's approach to her erotica changes. Part of the problem she encountered in defining her approach is author gender. She finds that she must decide whether to write from a male, female, neutral perspective, or from what she terms her own man-womanhood or androgynous perspective. As she learned from Baudelaire, "in each one of us there is a man, a woman, and a child" ("New," 13).

The conventional mode of sexual writing is from a male point of view, writing from the experiences and language of a man. From the traditional male perspective, the sexual act is something physical; woman is merely an instrument by which to achieve gratification. Male writers tend to divorce sex and love ("Eroticism", 3). The Marquis de Sade, for instance holds this belief 2, and Miller's novels with their crude, scathing caricatures of sex and women (his wife, June, for instance) seem to do this as well. In her essay "Eroticism in Women," Nin asserts that, when writing about sexual acts, women "will have to shed their imitation of Henry Miller" because "explicit barracks or clinical language is not exciting to most women" (5, 7).

Nin also tried to disregard gender when writing, striving to create a neutral viewpoint. However, she found this an impossible task. During this period, one sees that

[the] monster in the text is not woman,

or the woman writer; rather it is this

repressed vacillation of gender or the

instability of identity the ambiguity the

subjectivity itself which returns to wreak

havoc on consciousness, on hierarchy,

and on unitary schemes designed to repress

the otherness of femininity (Brennan, 75).

Sexuality is subjective and affects all aspects of a person's life. Because writing is also subjective, denying sexuality in sexual writing is pointless. Realistically, it cannot be done.

Through experimentation, Nin finally settled on the female perspective. She felt that it was the only way she could combine love and physical pleasure in her erotic writings. Unlike men, Nin asserts that women "need the words [...]the gestures which make the sensual act a particular one, not anonymous and purely sexual "("Eroticism," 3). In her opinion, it is women that will have to create an erotic genre in which sex is "linked to emotions to love, to a selection of a certain person" (8-9). This is exactly what Nin endeavored to accomplish: she wanted "to show all the relationships and establish fluid connections beyond sex...[to] reach the instinctive and intuitive connections" (Karsten, 39).

In the style of the female writer, Nin's language is a discourse of emotion, her subject is that of relationships (Hoy, 60). 3 Nin understood that language has not focused (or been used) enough in the realm of "feminine sensuality and sexuality," and therefore cannot fully express the feminine viewpoint. Luckily, Nin had a male precedent to follow. As she offers in an interview,

D.H. Lawrence was the first [writer] to

acknowledge that woman has a sexuality,

a life of her own, and that lovemaking can

originate with the woman ("Being," 22).

Anaïs Nin continued what Lawrence had begun and wrote in order that language would eventually (with the help of her erotica) allow a female voice to arise. (Papachristou, 62).

In her erotica, Nin was able to combine man's animal lust and woman's need for emotional bonds. She could have very easily continued following the examples of male writers such as Henry Miller, but she made a conscious decision to "strength[en] and reveal the pattern of women" in the area of creativeness, which was considered a male domain (Karsten, 38). In this, one sees the notion of what Nin often called her "man-woman"ness. Anaïs Nin was able to combine her anima and animus without sacrificing one half or the other. She felt that people need to realize that both genders exist within them:

The day that woman admits what we call

her masculine qualities, and man admits

his so-called feminine qualities, will

mean that we admit that we are androgynous,

that we have many personalities, many

sides to fulfill ("New," 19).

Using DH Lawrence as an example, Nin was able to create a feminine sexual discourse. In his works, Lawrence focused on sexual politics, also a major concern of Nin's erotica (such as in "The Veiled Woman"). Unlike his contemporaries, Lawrence saw "the necessity to create a new metaphysic able to renew private and public passion" (Italics mine) (McHugh, 83). Lawrence emphasized emotions, relationships and also the psychological aspects of both. It was this experimental discourse that Nin incorporated into her own works. Nin recognized that male writer's influence on her own works:

[W]e do owe [Lawrence] a tremendous

debt for his effort to find a language,

which for me was the beginning of a

pioneer work in a struggle to find the

language which was not the language of

our minds, of concepts - but the language

for feelings, instincts, emotions, and

intuitions; that's the hardest language

to gain (Karsten, 38).

In an interview, she confirms her belief in "communicating by way of the emotions, by imagery, indirectness, the myth" ("Being," 21). Intimacy, stressed in Lawrence's writings, is the basis of all of Nin's works; thinking and feeling are the most important aspects of life (Karsten, 39).

Such concern for intimacy in relationships is prevalent in all of Nin's works. For example, Sabina, from A Spy in the House of Love, wants to have more than merely "sexual intimacy with the men in her life," she wants to have serious intimate relationships based on equality outside of sex (Karsten, 38). Nin asserts in "The New Woman" that "when [she] wrote the diary and when [she] wrote fiction, [she] was trying to say that we need both intimacy and a deep knowledge of a few human beings" (18).

In "The Veiled Woman," Nin explore s male-female intimacy from another angle. Instead of the female character being the one to hope for intimacy beyond sex, it is the male character, George, who wishes for it. At first, George is excited by the idea of a woman who is only interested in a sexual relationship. However, after the encounter has begun, he wonders, "Could it be he might find the secret to her nature and possess her more than once? (Delta, 91)" Physical sex is no longer the of the ultimate importance. After the sexual relationship has ended and he finds that men pay to watch her have sex, he feels betrayed by a relationship that he realized was purely physical to begin with, yet in which he yearned for more.

For months he was wary of women. He

could not believe such perfidy, and such

play-acting. He became obsessed with the

idea that the women who invited him to

their apartments were all hiding some

spectator behind a curtain. (Delta, 96)

This feeling of betrayal shows his desire for emotional intimacy because it exposes his latent wish that the woman had cared enough to keep their intercourse private; he feels violated, exposed and vulnerable.

Related to male-female intimacy, another curious aspect in Nin's stories is the reversal and ambiguity of genders. "The Veiled Woman" is a good example of this element as well. As Brennan states, the woman is

transformed into a subject of desire

symbolically supplied with the very

phallus whose absence she evokes; and

George, by implication, is taking on the

perhaps castrated role of the spectacle (70).

By her absence of desire, she gains the control normally held by the male. George, however, loses his masculine role (not only because he is not the aggressor but also) because he expresses desire for the veiled woman. It is the expression of desire in women that is often considered to be the source of her weakness and the reasoning behind their suppression by men. Anaïs Nin impresses this point in "Eroticism in Women,"

But many times, when women have wanted

to reveal the facets of their sensuality,

they have been suppressed (4).

Women have been discouraged from revealing

their sensual nature (5).

It is in this manner that George becomes the feminine.

In A Spy in the House of Love, Sabina strives to cross the gender boundary. She has been called a nymphomaniac by some critics because she attempted to view sex as unemotional and, therefore, from a masculine point of view. Nin claims that it is man's ability to divorce sex and emotion that differentiates him from woman; "Woman has not made the separation between love and sensuality which man has made" ("Eroticism," 3). Nin acknowledges that Spy was "the first study of a woman who tries to separate love from sensuality as man does, to seek sensual freedom" (5).

The inclusion of gender relationships in Nin's works most likely stems from relationship experiences in her personal life. Although she had many lovers, Anaïs Nin had few lovers of importance in her life: Hugo, her husband, who adored her to the point of believing she could do no wrong; Eduardo, one of her earliest lovers, who was impassioned over her sex and beauty and was neurotic without her; Henry Miller, her literary friend and lover, who loved her and also loved the intercourse they shared; June, Henry Miller's wife, who represented freedom and the world of the forbidden. Of them all, Nin only acknowledged a true, abiding love for Hugo; the rest were her lovers, but not her loves.

In the writer's marriage to Hugo, one sees the stereotypical "Love Between a Man and a Woman"—the kind of love in which two people grow up together, fall in love ad get married. In Nin's relationship with her husband, however, the situation was not as mutually blissful as it outwardly appeared. Just as the Veiled Woman conquers George through her mysteriousness, Anaïs Nin controlled Hugo by means of her exotic and distant mien. Hugo blindly adored his wife, and still she kept many lovers. She did admit that she could never tell Hugo about any of the men because it would have destroyed him and she loved him too much to bear that. In Henry and June, Nin expounded her reasoning behind keeping Hugo ignorant,

When Eduardo made Hugo lie down, close

his eyes, and respond to words—"love,"

"cat," "jealousy"—his reactions were

amazingly slow and vague. Jealousy alone

brought an immediate response. He seems to

refuse to register, to realize. That is good. It is

his self- protection. It is the basis of the odd

liberty I have in spite of his powerful

jealousy. He does not want to see (113-14).

(Once, Hugo had read her diary and learned of her unfaithfulness with John Erskine. He then had become distraught. [HJ, 49]) In this relationship, Nin was the aggressor; Hugo was the feminine counterpart, showing the weak ness of desire. In A Spy in the House of Love, Sabina's husband, Alan, views his wife in the same can-do- no-wrong light.

Nin's relationship with Eduardo was one-sided (he needed her), and yet it lasted several years. However, after she had started sleeping with Henry Miller, she tried to break off the relationship. Nin was not in love with Eduardo per se, but mostly just loved his beauty. He was blind to this though and, when she tried to leave him, he confessed all his anxieties about her to his psychoanalyst, Dr. Allendy, who was a close friend of Nin's:

"Did you know," asked Allendy, "that

you have been the most important woman

in his life? Eduardo has been obsessed with

you. You are his image. He has seen you as

mother, sister, and unattainable woman. To

conquer you means conquering himself, his

neuroses" (HJ, 114).

Stemming from his fear of losing her, Eduardo affected a passive demeanor, which (once again) placed Nin in the masculine role of the aggressor. However, she did not particularly care for this role. Nin's role in this relationship is similar to the woman's part in "The Veiled Woman."

Because she did not appreciate being cast into the masculine role, Anaïs Nin gravitated to Henry Miller. Miller was an aggressive, bluntly sexual man—as she says, "a more animal man" (HJ, 114). He allowed her to assume the passive, feminine role in the relationship. Until her affair with John Erskine, Nin had preferred indecisive and weak men (HJ, 50). Miller provided the change from timidity that she needed. Characters with demeanors similar to Miller in Delta of Venus include the Baron ("The Hungarian Adventurer"), Antonio ("Mathilde"), and Millard ("Artists and Models").

However, Nin does not love Miller as she does her husband. When Miller tells her, "I love you madly. You've got me, you've got me. I'm crazy about you," he suddenly becomes self-conscious and asks, "It isn't only the fucking is it? You do love me?" Nin lies to him and says she loves him so as not to hurt his feelings, but it is not love she feels for him. It is only that "his body [had] a way of arousing [hers], of answering [hers]." (109) 4 Here, Anaïs Nin exemplifies what she considers to be the masculine separation of sex and love—a theme commonly broached in her erotic stories, such as "The Veiled Woman."

June was another important lover of Nin's. June Miller represented to Anaïs Nin everything that she found exciting and exotic about life. Henry Miller's wife was a free spirit, often on drugs or drunk, always flirting and using her sex to her advantage, and Nin was passionate about her. In June, Nin saw the forbidden, which she was afraid to possess but wanted to own:

I have a feeling against complete chaos.

I want to be able to live with June in

utter madness, but I also want to be

able to understand afterwards, to grasp

what I've lived through (HJ, 44).

June excited the masculine side of Nin. However, it was her desire of June that caused the writer to realize that, by wanting to dominate June as a man would, she faced the possibility of losing her own sensuality, her female self (HJ, 51). 5 There are no clear references to June in Nin's writings. There is, however, one lesbian relationship presented in "Artists and Models." It does not truly resemble the relationship of June and Anaïs, though.

Interestingly enough, Anaïs Nin became a role model for the women's liberation movement and continues to be influential in today's feminism. Nin's writings (especially her diaries) are in a sense narcissistic, but the observations made in them are less self- absorbed than they are "interrogations on the human condition over and above self-consciousness about sexual differences" (Balakian, 28). It is this attention to motivational differences between the genders that the feminist movement, in part, wishes to acknowledge. Because the personalities of women have been ignored for so long, women tend to become mere extensions of the male personality (and relegated, as I mentioned previously, to the roles of wife and mother). Nin was not exempt from the societal expectations:

And in my family, just as in your

family probably, I was expected simply

to marry, to be a wife, and to have

children ("New," 13).

By exploiting differences and reversing gender roles, Nin forces her reading audience to examine the roles more carefully.

The fact that Nin wrote erotica does not diminish her worth for most feminists. Female erotica allows women to retranslate their role in the sexual arena. As she states, "Eroticism is one of the basic means of self-knowledge" ("Being," 22). Nin was quite aware of the stigma attached to the sexual for a woman and did not blithely ignore it, but confronted it—

But if a woman writes openly about her

need[...]she is damned. I have always

admitted the sexual appetite and given

it a great place in my work ("Being," 22).

Self-knowledge is what most feminists believe has been denied women for centuries, through labels such as wife and mother. These deny female sexual appetite and force women into subservient, nurturing roles that deny them personalities.

Anaïs Nin is an inspiration to all women desiring to be accepted in a male dominated society because, although she was censored, society did not make her an outcast. Many women who dared to expand the boundaries of women's roles have been shunned and "remained virginal, unmarried, childless, defeminized" (Hoy, 52). Yet, Nin was married, experienced in matters of sexual intercourse (as her diaries attest), and never lost her femininity after she realized that she had denied it and regained possession of it. She is now often viewed as "femininity incarnate[...]living proof one could live out one's dreams" (52).

None of this is to say that Nin did not suffer the wrath of a patriarchal society. She felt compelled to move from New York to Paris because the French city's atmosphere was more conducive to artists and other unusual individuals at the time. While she was alive, she found it quite difficult to get published. (Stuhlmann, 120) Her diaries were severely edited to conform to the sensibilities of the age and most publication houses refused to take responsibility for her erotica.

It was not until after World War II that Nin got more than passing attention in literary circles. It was also then that she came to be known as an "'American' writer, whatever that identification entailed." Before then, she had an underground reputation and following, but people had not read much of her writing. In fact, much of her work was only known as rumor, her diary for instance. (Stuhlmann, 121)

It is an interesting aspect of Western culture that its tastes and values change as often as they do. Nin's erotica, as is the case with works by other authors, had been condemned while she was writing it. Yet, as happened with the pornography of the nineteenth century, it later became accepted as decent and readable—and even came to be seen as "literature by [some] cultural elites, including primary journalists, literary critics, and novelists" (Dean, 64).

Just as minority potency disturbs the idea of white male centrality, women who write openly of sex are are considered to be a threat (Roof, 120). Nin's continuing work with the sexual and the erotic was threatening to the moral sensibilities of the men of the age who considered sexuality in women to be of concern. This was a major reason that she found resistance in trying to publish her writings.

If, as she told Dr. Allendy in her diary, she truly "[didn't] want to become normal, average, standard" (by the standards of her day) and instead wanted "to develop even more original and more unconventional traits," then writing about sex was the perfect option (D1, 112). At the time she was writing, people did not discuss sex (unless they were artists, who were considered slightly left of being upstanding citizens). Women most certainly were not supposed to be candid about sexual matters.

End Notes

1 Throughout the rest of the essay, I will refer to Henry and June as HJ in citations. Delta of Venus will be referred to as Delta. References to Nin's diaries will be noted as D1, D2, D3, etc. "Eroticism in Women" is shortened to "Eroticism," just as "Anaïs Nin Talks About Being a Woman: an Interview" has been simplified to "Being" and "The New Woman" to "New."

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2 Marquis de Sade: "Fuck fair ladies, fuck to your heart s delight; fuck your pretty heads off, we couldn't care less; we have only one concern and it is this: that you anticipate our desires, that you satisfy them unscrupulously; endeavor to please us, metamorphose yourselves, assume many roles, play at this sex and that, be children so as to afford your husbands the great delight of whipping you, and you may be sure of it" (Brennan, 66).

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3 "[Nin] thought about 'writing as a woman,' of which she was becoming increasingly aware, of 'all that happens in the real womb, not in the womb fabricated by a man as substitute. Strange that I should explore this womb of real flesh when of all women I seem the most idealized, moon-like, a dream, a myth.'[...]She chafed at how to make men understand" (Bair 37).

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4 "But the animal strength which satisfies woman lies in brutal men, in the realists like Henry, and from him I do not want love" (HJ, 51).

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5 "I prefer to move for ward and choose my June freely, like a man. But my body will die, because I have a sensual body, a living body , and there is no life in the love between women" (HJ, 51).

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Works Cited

Bair, Deidre. "Writing as a Woman: Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, and Anaïs Nin in the Villa Seurat." Anaïs, 12 (1994): 31-38.

Balakian, Anna. "Anaïs Nin and Feminism." Anaïs, Art and Artists, a Collection of Essays. Ed. Sharon Spencer. Greenwood, FL: Penkevill, 1986. 23-33.

Brennan, Karen. "Anaïs Nin: author(iz)ing the Erotic Body." Genders, 14 (fall 1992): 66-86.

Dean, Carolyn. "Pornography, Literature, and the Redemption of Virility in France, 1880-1930." Differences, 5:2 (Summer 1993): 61-91.

Hoy, Nancy Jo. "The Poetry of Experience: How to be a Woman and an Artist." Anaïs, 4 (1986): 52-66.

Kamboureli, Smaro. "Discourse and Intercourse, Design and Desire in the Erotica of Anaïs Nin." Journal of Modern Literature, 11:1 (1984): 143-158.

Karsten, Julie A. "Self-Realization and Intimacy: the influence of D.H. Lawrence on Anaïs Nin." Anaïs, 4 (1986): 36-42.

McHugh, Patrick. "Metaphysics and Sexual Politics in Lawrence's Novels." College Literature, 20:2 (June 1993): 83-97.

McMahon, Lynne. "The Sexual Swamp: female erotics and the masculine art." The Southern Review, 28:2 (Spring 1992): 333- 353.

Nin, Anaïs. "Anaïs Nin Talks About Being a Woman: an Interview." In Favor of the Sensitive Man

Papachristou, , Sophia. "The Body in the Diary: on Anaïs Nin's first erotica writings." Anaïs, 9 (1991): 58-66.

Roof, Judith. "The Erotic Travelogue: the scopophilic pleasure of race vs. gender." The Arizona Quarterly, 47:4 (Winter 1991): 119- 135.

Schwichtenberg, Cathy. "The Semey Side of Semiotics." Sub-Stance, 32 (1981): 26-38.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. "Gender Criticism." Redrawing the Boundaries: The Transformation of English and American Studies. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt and Giles Gunn. NY: Modern Language Association of America, 1992; 271-302.

Stimpson, Catharine R. "Feminist Criticism." Redrawing the Boundaries: The Transformation of English and American Studies. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt and Giles Gunn. NY: Modern Language Association of America, 1992; 251-70.

Stuhlmann, Gunther. "Into Another Language: Some Notes on Anaïs Nin's Work in translation." Anaïs, 1 (1983): 120-136.

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