By Elisabeth Barillé
Anaïs Nin est née en 1903 en France. C’est son père, déçu d’avoir une fille, qui a choisi ce prénom aux sonorités ambiguës. Pianiste esthète et pervers, Joaquin Nin abandonne sa femme et ses enfants dix ans plus tard. Adolescente hantée par los angeles littérature puis épouse frustrée d’un banquier anglo-saxon, Américaine à Paris et mondaine malgré elle, Anaïs ne connaît qu’une jouissance : écrire. Elle a trente ans, quand elle rencontre Henry Miller. Elle l’aime, le soutient, le finance. Sage et troublante Anaïs ! Fantaisiste et ascète, insaisissable et un rien magicienne… elle dresses à elle Artaud, Brassaï, Allendy, Rank, Breton, Durrell… Anaïs, c’est un magazine. Cinquante ans d’écriture, quarante-cinq mille pages longtemps enfouies dans une cave de Brooklyn. De cette « confession » monumentale Elisabeth Barillé a tiré un portrait romanesque, tissé dans los angeles matière même de son œuvre, de sa vie.
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The man nodded, smiled and drew a set of keys out of his pocket. He dropped them into Devon‘s hand and pointed to a door at the end of the bar. Devon nodded and towed Jessie away from the bar. The door at the end of the bar was unlocked. He opened it and waited until she entered the white-walled hallway in front of him. He stalked over to the first door on the right. Unlocking the door, he pushed the thick metal panel inward. Stepping forward, he felt along the wall to the side of the door and flipped the switch.
She‘d never had such an intense orgasm in her life. She could still feel the reaction to that bite sizzling through her. Her body seemed overly sensitive. Just the brush of her hand over her thighs caused arousal to stir. She knew enough about vampires now to know that that bite had sent chemicals racing through her veins. The change would progress at a faster pace. And she didn‘t have any suppression drugs to slow it. On top of that, he seemed determined to resume their relationship as if there hadn‘t been any break in it.
She sat in the sumptuous leather seat staring forward as he sat beside her. She couldn‘t ever remember being this nervous. A tight knot had formed in her belly the moment she‘d slid into the seat. The car stopped at the curb in front of a large single-floored building with a line formed in front of it. Devon waited for the driver to get the door. Stepping out, he motioned the man away and took her hand, helping her out of the car. This was no neon-signed club. A single very discreet plaque on the wall with styled lettering announced the club‘s name.