Anais Nin
I read this when I was young enough to believe that I could,
if I wished, ‘be’ Sabina. I had already
devoured most of D H Lawrence’s novels and been impressed, as only a
pretentious undergraduate can be, with this (or any) kind of angst-ridden
literature, so I was ready for more and was inclined to believe that Anais Nin
would go deeper in, as it were, and stay there for longer.
A third of a century later, I downloaded the English version
to my kindle and plunged in once again.
What I found was a predictable minefield of emotion, a philosophy that
had more twists and turns than an anaconda and, in between, passages that
struck home with one or several blinding truths that went off like fireworks in
my brain. More! I wanted more. It was like sifting through sand to find diamonds, laborious but
ultimately worth the effort.
Nin is a master at proving the point that, as The Verve
later put it, rather more succinctly, in Bittersweet Symphony: (we are)
‘a million different people from one day to the next…’ Sabina wrangles with her multiple
personalities and endeavours to satisfy each one, all the time searching for
the elusive real ‘Sabina’.
I will undoubtedly return to this book, but I will try it in
French next time. The English version was chosen for its lower price tag
(shameful) and in the vain hope that it might be easier to read (genetic
flaw). I have to say that it is not a
bad effort, (I believe that Nin was criticised greatly for her English*) but
there is an unavoidable awkwardness that jars the flow and this book needs,
above all, to flow. There were too many
‘annihilations’ ‘dispersions’ ‘fragments’ and every part of speech involving
the base form ‘bleak’ (this last one must have been when even the author had
had enough of Sabina’s inner turmoil and her long-way-round trip to find
herself).
A richer, more natural lexical field would at least have
avoided choices that are almost but not quite apt, not to mention the tedious
repetition of standby, last resort words as mentioned above. ‘Lostness’ was probably the last straw for
me.
However, until I get to grips with the French edition once
more, which may read better, I feel a bit of a fraud. Even in English, the book is definitely well worth reading.
* I believe that Nin wrote in both English and French and that
her books are not translations.
Isn't it interesting how writing mannerisms can be irritating. As you say, much may have been lost or sidestepped by translation, but I'll be interested to hear if you think the original is more fluid.
ReplyDelete