published fifty years ago, Anaïs Nin‘s novel

_A Spy In the House of Love_ chronicles

particular ethical dilemmas of the

human condition, from a female perspective.

drawn largely from her personal experiences,

Nin’s writing gave voice to subjects few

women dared to explore with such abandon.

her journals – the most recently published titled

_A Café in Space_ –  novels, and correspondence

have intrigued readers for over half a century;

she continues to fascinate, not only as a writer

of unique style and turn of phrase, but as a literary

character in her own right.

Webs formed on my floor today, caught by sunlight, captured by the view of the couch. As if they had simply appeared, giving substance from empty wire to empty case, glistening. Unowned.

Now broken. My uncaring heart never touching a string, but moving the rock distance from the hard place. Shaking a foundation that I had no hand in spinning; unspun. Creation, demolished by an alien force.

And there is no remorse. Save from documenting the action. No shame felt for producing the desire to eliminate bothersome helplessness from the world. For no purpose, to do it only because I was able to flex at any point I cared to. Rip my seams and then some, hulking over my spiteful desecration of another’s life‘s work, dastardly, dictatoriously.

Perhaps a small ounce of remorse.

I wonder if I’ve angered it. Some enormous beast of an eight-legged creature, eyes locked onto such easily vanquished prey. Slow and determined, quick in the shot. The smallest bite of revenge taking down my mammoth self. Only that the webbing is too small; slight and fingering, forking into angles only delicate pin claws could manage. The defendant, remained to be seen, was of no sizeable worry, the victim.

And it was still there! The structure, in fact, only changed in direction. And stability. And point in general. I was to be sitting in the perfect spot at the exact slice of time when our burning lives had been allowed to intersect and glitter. Torn down in her prime! Isn’t that the way.

I paid the rent; my floor. My hands working for the heat that supplied this mortal unnatural comfort. The ability to thrive lie with me. And I felt sucked on. Mooched for the last time by creeping grabbing hands. Rude, really. And presumptuous. To not even introduce one’s self.

Which is fine by me really.

Really, it’s fine.

I killed your Father two weeks ago, and that book of Russian history hasn’t gotten any smaller.

©2014 Mary Hannah Snider