by Anais Nin
“The relative smoothness of the lunar surface poses a question.”
Much of men’s energies were being spent on such questions, Lillian’s on the formation of Larry’s character. Their minds were fixed on space; hers on the convolutions of Larry’s feelings.
Her vehement presence became the magnet. She summoned him back from solitude. She was curious about his feelings, about his silences, about his retractions. His mother’s first wish that he should not exist at all was pitted against Lillian’s wish that he exist in a more vivid and heightened way. She made a game of his retreats, pretended to discover his “caves.” He was truly born in her warmth and her conviction of his existence.
How slender was the form he offered to the world’s vision, how slender a slice of his self, a thin sliver of an eighth of the moon on certain nights. She was not deceived as to the dangers of another eclipse. She could hear, as you hear in musique concrète, the echo in vast space which corresponds to new dimensions in science, the echo which was never heard in classical music.
Lillian felt that in the husband playing the role of husband, in the scientist playing his role of scientist, in the father playing his role of father, there was always the danger of detachment. He had to be maintained on the ground, given a body. She breathed, laughed, stirred, and was tumultuous him. Together they moved as one living body and Larry was passionately willed into being born, this time permanently. Larry, Larry, what can I bring you? Intimacy with the world? She was on intimate terms with the world. While he maintained a world in which Lillian was the only inhabitant, or at least the reigning one.
Such obsession with reaching the moon, because they had failed to reach each other, each a solitary planet! In silence, in mystery, a human being was formed, was exploded, was struck by other passing bodies, was burned, was deserted. And then it was born in the molten love of the one who cared.