I fell asleep last night reading Henry and June, and when the light finally forced me back awake I found myself on the other side of the bed, cheek creased from laying on top of Anansi Boys. I never venture over to the other side of the bed; these days, it is used solely for the storage of books. And yet there I was, and I am firmly convinced that the cause for this somnambulant jaunt lies at the feet of Anais Nin.
I have always loved Anais Nin, loved how she regularly set her world on fire just to see how it would change the landscape. But at the same time I'll never forget the disappointment I felt the day I learned that the copy of her journals I was reading was heavily edited, and that in fact she had been married the entire time she was exploring other people. It was the first time that I realized that my idols could be, and in fact often were, fallible human beings.
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