Originally published on Tumblr on December 31, 2013.

Another weird year ends. [Editor’s note, February 5, 2016: Another weird year begins!]

Excerpts from Anais Nin’s Delta Of Venus:

[February, 1941] The telephone bill was unpaid. The net of economic difficulties was closing in on me. Everyone around me irresponsible, unconscious of the shipwreck. I did thirty pages of erotica.

I again awakened to the consciousness of being without a cent and telephoned the collector. Had he heard from his rich client about the last manuscript I sent? No, he had not, but he would take the one I had just finished and pay me for it. Henry had to see a doctor. Gonzalo needed glasses. Robert came with B. and asked me for money to go to the movies. The soot from the transom window fell on my typing paper and on my work. Robert came and took away my box of typing paper.

Wasn’t the old man tired of pornography? Wouldn’t a miracle take place? I began to imagine him saying: “Give me everything she writes, I want it all, I like all of it. I will send her a big present, a big check for all the writing she has done.”

My typewriter was broken. With a hundred dollars in my pocket I recovered my optimism. I said to Henry [Miller]: “The collector says he likes simple, unintellectual women—but he invites me to dinner.”

[December, 1941] George Barker was terribly poor. He wanted to write more erotica. He wrote eighty-five pages. The collector thought they were too surrealistic. I loved them. His scenes of lovemaking were disheveled and fantastic. Love between trapezes.

He drank away the first money, and I could not lend him anything but more paper and carbons. George Barker, the excel- lent English poet, writing erotica to drink, just as Utrillo painted paintings in exchange for a bottle of wine. I began to think about the old man we all hated. I decided to write to him, address him directly, tell him about our feelings.

“Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personalities, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities.

“We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriv- eled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”


At the time we were all writing erotica at a dollar a page, I realized that for centuries we had had only one model for this literary genre—the writing of men. I was already conscious of a difference between the masculine and feminine treatment of sexual experience. I knew that there was a great disparity between Henry Miller’s explicitness and my ambiguities—between his humorous, Rabelaisian view of sex and my poetic descriptions of sexual relationships in the unpublished portions of the diary.

Read the whole piece here.

Innocence Is Kinky by Jenny Hval

At night I watch people fucking on my computer
Nobody can see me looking anyway
It’s late
and everything turns into a kind of dirty
My skin starts breaking with LCD

I feel desire
What I don’t know, what I don’t own

I’m free
I turn off the light and dress myself in silver and gold
I go out unto the edge of the city
tread on my twigs that are not yet burning
The weight of my boots makes them break
and smoke comes out of be-be-be-ne-ne-neath the ba-ba-bark

Like a boat down the hatch
Like sex without the bodies (like sex without the bodies)
Like smoke rings (smoke rings) from my bosom
A night vision; bodies turned soft like newborn jellyfish,
mushrooms, light macbooks , blind bodies with empty sockets
I stare back at my gaze that belongs to your body

I ask “is there nothing but sea like sea
Is there nothing serve nothing
Is there nothing and nothing?”

I’m free
I take off my face and torso
lift them and barely
I go out into the edge of the city
Tread on my twigs and feel them break
I start looking for something else
There has to be more to burning; I’m losing myself
More to burning and sex and God

I tear off the ties
of slow evil, of slow evil
I am an Oslo Oedipus
Tearing my eyes in and out and
in and out and in and out and
in and out and in and out and
in and out and in and out and
in and out of face!