As a young wife, Anais Nin and her husband Hugh Guiler (Hugo) discussed the possibility of a temporary separation to sate their hunger for extra-marital sex. These talks gave way to a drama of possessiveness. In Henry and June, her unexpurgated diary (1931-32), Nin writes about the couple's lovemaking during these turbulent weeks:
"We have never been as happy or as miserable. Our quarrels are portentous, tremendous, violent. We are both wrathful to the point of madness; we desire death. My face is ravaged by tears, the veins on my temple swell. Hugo's mouth trembles. One cry from me brings him suddenly into my arms, sobbing. And then he desires me physically. We cry and kiss and come at the same moment. And the next moment we analyze and talk rationally... In cooler moments I wonder at the extravagance of our feelings. Dullness and peace are forever over."
It isn't the first or the last time Nin speaks of lovemaking as being inexplicably bound to feelings. There is a great force, not only in her word choice but also of her sentencing, which mimics the quick little gasps of trauma and longing. In fact, she suggests the fulfillment of desire made way for a cooler rationality -- as if the feelings had been worked through and expressed, and now the thinking could take over. Perhaps it isn't surprising they experienced a need for intense possession -- a reminder that they did belong to each other, after all.
I have a deep respect for women who write of their own sexual experiences, especially with the candour and sensitivity of Anais Nin. I also love her admission that after the act, she and Hugh felt more rational: to the point, in fact, of wondering at the "extravagance of their feelings" both before and during sex. Mind you, when you think about it, this isn't surprising. The most intimate rituals are often the most transformative, as the ancient pagans taught us:
You leap through the ring of fire, and afterwards you're changed.
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