Posted by panch from pool0076.cvx20-bradley.dialup.earthlink.net (22.214.171.124) on Wednesday, June 19, 2002 at 8:30AM :
My savior. I don't know how many times I've read her Diaries. Had a harder time with her novels, but her diaries are such a gift to us all...the artist in all of us especially. It's something to realize that she made it possible for Henry Miller to get published...nourishing and nurturing him as if he was her child.
It's been my fantasy that had we known each other, we would have been in love. Course she was in love with lots of men...but who would mind being one of them?
The discipline it took to write her diary throughout her life is something tremendous to behold. We were in New York in 1978...the year she died, in fact we were there when she died, living in Greenwhich Village, her own haunt in the 40's.
My ladyfriend and wife at the time was as besotted by her as I was. I remember the night I read about her death in the Times. My ladyfaire was taking a bath...it was January, cold and snowing outside. I didn't want to just blurt out the news so I suggested a walk of all things. We went out into the soft air, snowing falling...and walked round to McDougal Alley where Anais had a studio in the early 40's...when she and Gonzalo had set up a printing press to publish her own books. The streets were quiet in that muffled way, everything muted and clean...the lights in windows warm and inviting. I stopped at the head of the Alley and we just listened...somewhere from one of the rooms above the muffled sound of a typewriter came...some other writer carrying on. It was strange...but that was the only noise...keys clacking away, snow falling.
I didn't say anything...just stood there with her. Sudenly she turned and said..."Oh no". All I could do was nod my head. She cried.
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