By Anais Nin
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Additional info for Children of the Albatross (Vol II of her "continuous novel")
I am the dancer who falls,t>always, into traps of depression, breaking my heart and my body almost at every turn, losing my tempo and my lightness, falling out of groups, out of grace, out of perfection. There is too often something wrong. Something you cannot help me with… Supposing we found ourselves in a strange country, in a strange hotel. You are alone in a hotel room. Well, what of that? You can talk to the bar man, or you can sit before your glass of beer and read the papers. Everything is simple.
He was waiting for her at the door, neat and trim. ” She followed him. Not far from there was the Place Clichy, always animated but more so now as the site of the Fair. The merry-go-rounds were turning swiftly. The gypsies were reading fortunes in little booths hung with Arabian rugs. Workmen were shooting clay pigeons and winning cut-glass dishes for their wives. The prostitutes were enjoying their watchful promenades, and the men their loitering. The ballet master was talking to her: “Djuna (and suddenly as he said her name, she felt again where he had deposited his tribute), I am a simple man.
He smiled again, a distressed smile, and then his eyes lost their direct, open frankness. They wavered, as if he had suddenly lost his way. This was his most familiar expression: a nebulous glance, sliding off people and objects. He had the fears of a child in the external world, yet he gave at the same time the impression of living in a larger world. This boy, thought Djuna tenderly, is lost. But he is lost in a large world. His dreams are vague, infinite, formless. He loses himself in them.
Children of the Albatross (Vol II of her "continuous novel") by Anais Nin