Anaïs Nin is the opposite of linear. She goes all over the place in her paragraphs, and all over the place in a single sentence. There is no sequence to anything, all her experiences and thoughts merge and are mixed up in a crazy collage.
Obviously she writes as she thinks: as a woman, and women do not think like men. Men are chained to logic, sequence, cause and effect. Women are more concerned with the opposite, whatever that might be, and actually I don't care because it seems somehow false, although I admit that's only because I'm not a woman.
I have feminine aspects to my personality, but not enough to embrace that kind of thinking, or that kind of writing.
Reading Anaïs makes me look down at her because she is so intentionally illogical and formless and lacking in a sure direction. Yet at the same time I feel that she's achieved a kind of liberation or transcendence. I can fully understand how fulfilling the act of writing her journal was for her.
Sometimes my description of the day's events brings me not liberation or transcendence but a vague dissatisfaction, because I know I have not fully captured what I see, like the creek at dawn this morning during my walk. Which is why I always carry a camera.
But that may be the journalist in me, whining that I didn't do a better job of journalism. Who, what, why, when, where, and how. You can never do enough in this respect because reality is infinitely elusive. You can capture only a fragment here and there.
Anaïs is absolved, or free of that responsibility.
My journalism can be measured, graded, ranked, or refuted because it can be compared to the event or scene or conversation I'm writing about. Anaïs escapes that because nobody can ever get inside her head to see if she's telling the truth about what she thinks or feels.
I don't trust fantasy, I trust only what I can see, touch, smell, taste, hear.