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This bestseller covers a single momentous year during Nin’s life in Paris, when she met Henry Miller and his wife, June. “Closer to what many sexually adventuresome women experience than almost anything I’ve ever read....I found it a very erotic book and profoundly liberating” (Alice Walker). The source of a major motion picture from Universal. Preface by Rupert Pole; Index.
- Sales Rank: #74151 in Books
- Brand: Nin, Anais
- Published on: 1990-10-29
- Released on: 1990-10-29
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.00" h x .70" w x 6.00" l, .64 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 281 pages
About the Author
Ana-s Nin (1903-1977) was born in Paris and aspired at an early age to be a writer. An influential artist and thinker, she was the author of several novels, short stories, critical studies, a collection of essays, two volumes of erotica, and nine published volumes of her Diary.
Most helpful customer reviews
144 of 158 people found the following review helpful.
A journal of self-obssession and self-deceit
By Diane Schirf
Henry and June (from The Journal of Love) by Anaïs Nin. Recommended.
Henry and June (from The Journal of Love) by Anaïs Nin is a portion of the writer's famous journal from October 1931 until October 1932—the year in which she met Henry and June Miller and fell for Henry's sensuality and June's mystery, a year of writing, lies, deceit, sexual awakening, introspection, psychoanalysis, and "love."
Nin is an evocative, poetic writer, if not a particularly substantive one. Henry and June, edited from her journal to focus on Miller and his wife, is beautifully written but, in the end, is devoid of meaning to anyone other than the participants. She obscures the truth of how much she writes. If the journal is accurate, then Nin had mastered deception—she lies to her husband, to June, to Henry, to her psychoanalyst, to her lover/cousin Eduardo, to virtually everyone she knows, all seemingly in an attempt to hide herself from them, and perhaps from herself. She writes frequently of costumes, makeup, jewelry, nail polish and how one can put them on to create a new self. It quickly becomes clear that, despite the introspection of the journal, despite the psychoanalysis, despite her complete focus on herself and how she relates to those people in her life, Nin is no more self-aware by the end of the year than she was when she met Miller, and the reader can't be too sure, either, of where Nin ends and where the self-deception begins. When the obvious is pointed out to her—that she is still trying to find the "love" that she didn't get from her father—Nin accepts it at first, but denies it as she talks more and more to herself. And while she may grasp that her father's abandonment was harmful to her, she finds it easy to mistreat her husband, whom she portrays as psychologically simple and refers to as a "child" without relating how he might feel to how she felt about her father. She seems incapable of grasping the importance of another person's feelings, no matter who that other person might be.
Nin writes of spending entire days and nights with Miller, of going from him to Hugo, her banker husband, with no suspicion on Hugo's part. Hugo is jealous of Miller, although she repeatedly tells her journal she doesn't know why he would be. She writes of not wanting to hurt the soft, weak, emotional Eduardo, but continues her sexual relationship with him until he is bound to be crushed by her sudden decision to end it. She tells Eduardo about Henry, Henry about Hugo, and her psychoanalyst about all of them. She writes of having sex with three men in one day, ending with "What does that make me?" She does not want to know the potential answer to that question. She wants "experience" at any cost. She does not want to be hurt, but she hurts others freely. She believes she has deep insight into others, but does not understand at more than a superficial level what their thoughts and feelings may be. Much of what she attributes to the elusive, mysterious June are the shifting sands of her own personality.
Not having read Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, the book he was writing during the year of his relationship with Nin, it's difficult for me to say how accurate Nin's portrayal of him is. At times, she feels pity for him, for his weak eyes, for the mind-numbing work he does to support himself. At others, she describes him as "monstrous." The sketch of Miller is less one of the man himself than of Nin's infatuation with her own perceptions. At one moment he is the ultimate sensualist; the next, he becomes a gentle romantic. She also enjoys him largely for his worship of her as a writer and as a lover. The relationship is less about the dynamics of their interactions than about her ego and her relationship with herself. Miller is never much more than a two-dimensional, ever-changing character—Henry Miller according to Anaïs Nin. While Nin's journal is certainly more thoughtful than those of most people, ultimately, it lacks the insight and depth that another writer could have brought to such an intense relationship. At the end, Nin and Miller are still strangers to the reader who has spent hours over dinner and in bedrooms with them. Perhaps it is Nin's amorality that gets in the way of any true intimacy.
Nin has somehow become a model of a woman's sexual awakening and awareness, perhaps because of the perceived candor of her journal and her desires for the depths and heights of sexual experience. It is as though such desires for such experiences are what should define a woman—a notion that may work for some women, but certainly not all who are sexually awakened in their own ways.
Henry and June is self-indulgent and even occasionally adolescent in its focus, obssessions, and attitudes. Perhaps because I find so little to relate to in Nin, I found her cold, uninteresting, and annoying—perhaps because I don't like to be deceived. On the other hand, this will be a fascinating read for anyone who is deeply interested in Nin or Miller or anyone, like me, who would like to free themselves to speak freely in their own journals.
Diane L. Schirf....
61 of 66 people found the following review helpful.
Nin and Miller wild and untamed
By David J. Loftus
I read a lot of Anais Nin's fiction when I was in high school, because my girlfriend did. I didn't get it. I tried to read her famous diary, but couldn't finish even the first volume. There was an intelligent and interesting woman there, but I didn't feel I was really getting to her. The diary entries I read were too cool, too discursive for my taste.
Then _Henry and June_ came out in 1986. It covered the exact same period (Paris, 1931) as "Volume I" of Nin's diaries -- first published, but in highly edited form one could now see, in 1969. Here she begins to cheat on her husband Hugo with the young Henry Miller, meets and flirts with his flighty wife June, and opens to life and eventually other men in an explosive fashion. HERE was the flesh-and-blood woman I had sensed behind the original published diaries. She panted, she sweated, she lied, she used filthy language as well as high poetry, and she adored love and sex. I thought she was a wonder. Nin and Miller collide like titans; sparks fly when they talk and when they make love.
Unfortunately, I have read several of the subsequent, increasingly-appalling unexpurgated diaries, as well as the biographies by Noel Riley Fitch and Deirdre Bair. The bloom is definitely off the rose. Ms. Nin turns out to have been a consummate deceiver (though of herself as much as anyone else), an artist manque who thought herself -- wished herself -- far more talented than she turned out to be. She works better in fantasy than reality; I still might have liked to meet her in her prime, but it would have been dicey to get involved with her.
It is in this book that she shows to her best as a character (never mind whether it's all true or another kind of fiction). Here one sees a woman's passion in all its riotous fire and self-contradiction. Just read this one and leave all the rest (save, perhaps for the curious erotica and a decent collection of essays entitled "In Favor of the Sensitive Man"), unless you have a penchant for the odd and pretentious.
30 of 33 people found the following review helpful.
Introspective, Exhausting, Harrowing
By Lance C. Panzer
This is from Anais Nin's diary. It is the most detailed introspective work I have ever read; Anais lays her soul bare with no reservations. She is shameless, and at the same time magnificently dignified. However, her confessions do not titillate, for they are heart-wrenching cries for help. She is 29 and married. Her husband is a banker--very stable and secure and devoted--but she yearns for excitement and danger. She is infatuated with her cousin, Eduardo, and frequently fantasizes about making love with him. And then she meets Henry Miller, and his wife, June. She thinks Henry is crude and unfeeling, but she finds June utterly fascinating; she thinks June is the epitome of feminine beauty and allure, and gentleness and understanding. The friendship escalates, and she experiences her first lesbian lovemaking with June. But as she penetrates June's psyche deeper, she intuits that June is manipulative and shallow. Then June leaves for New York. And there is only Henry. After much hand-wringing, Anais makes love with Henry. And there begins her downward spiral. A classic addictive relationship, Anais shouts out how wonderful Henry is, how she would gladly be his slave, and then a few pages later she vows to break it off with him, that he is not what she had thought. A few more pages, and she again rejoices over their lovemaking. She enrolls herself into psychotherapy, in the hopes of sorting out her riotous feelings. She becomes attracted to her therapist, and schemes to seduce him. She fans the flames of her attraction to her cousin. She makes love to her husband with renewed vigor, based on what she's learned in bed from Henry. And then she's off to Henry's apartment, where they raise the roof with their countless climaxes. This book contains several very insightful observations about human nature, but its chronicle of emotional demise is what lingers in the reader's memory. This book is arguably an even graver portrayal of the minefield of adultery than is Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. Lastly, on a practical note, this book can be exhaustingly repetitive--Henry, Henry, Henry--and the sex is not nearly as good as in Delta of Venus.
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