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Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.

Anais Nin

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Anais Nin
Age: 73 †
Born: 1903
Born: February 21
Died: 1977
Died: January 14
Author
Autobiographer
Diarist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Neuilly
Angela Anaïs Juana Antolina Rosa Edelmira Nin y Culmell
Anais Nin
Life
Greatest
Drowning
Makes
Killers
Others
Panic
Might
Holds
Feel
Anxiety
Feels
Save
Strangling
Men
Marriage
Strangle
Love
Worry
Killer

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The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.
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I don't mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated
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atrophy of feeling creates criminals.
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I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again. ANAÏS NIN, Fire: From A Journal of Love The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1938 For me, the adventures of the mind, each inflection of thought, each movement, nuance, growth, discovery, is a source of exhilaration.
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Since desire always goes towards that which is our direct opposite, it forces us to love that which will make us suffer.
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Paris-New York, the two high tension magnetic poles between life, life of the senses, of the spirit in Paris, and life in action in New York.
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With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness... something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.
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This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.
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I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life.
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My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.
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What a mystery this is, desire. The love sickness, the sensitivity, the obsession, the flutter of the heart, the ebb and flow of the blood. There is no drug and no alcohol to equal it.
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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.
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Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
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She lacks confidence, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on the reflections of herself in the eyes of others. She does not dare to be herself.
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There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.
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I had been struck by the analogy between neurosis and romanticism. Romanticism was truly a parallel to neurosis. It demanded of reality an illusory world, love, an absolute which it could never obtain, and thus destroyed itself by the dream.
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Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go.
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All of my creation is an effort to weave a web of connection with the world: I am always weaving it because it was once broken.
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