This is the third volume of Anais Nin's numinous autobiography, edited by Gunther Stuhlman, and it covers the years 1939-1944. Perhaps nothing more needs to be said or can be said. ""Everything is flowing, love, writing, talking."" ""I am like a winged creature who is too rarely allowed to use its wings"" but it is difficult to think that she could be more airborne since her ever ready sensibilities stipple the pages. . . here and there brushing up against the notables with whom she is associated, Artaud and Andre Breton, Kenneth Patchen and Henry Miller (Dorothy Norman and Kay Boyle whom she reproaches for their coldness). At this period in time she is in New York which, except for Harlem, she dislikes for its lack of warmth and intimacy. The book closes with the publication of her short stories (Under a Glass Bell) and a certain acclaim although she only writes to ""heighten and create life all around me."" Her fecundity can hardly be open to question--only the solipsistic ""me.