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I did not feel drawn to huxley. He was beautiful physically but again without vibrations or sensory antennae... and I had a painful impression of a psychic blindness. With all his science and knowledge, in the mystic world he blundered.

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
Beautiful
Mystic
Without
Blindness
Blundered
Feel
Physically
Antennae
Feels
Drawn
Huxley
World
Impression
Sensory
Painful
Psychic
Knowledge
Vibrations
Science
Psychics

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Whenever you do something that is not aligned with the yearning or your soul—you create suffering.
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I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason.
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The self is merely the lens through which we see others and the world.
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Life, religion and art all converge in Bali. They have no word in their language for 'artist' or 'art.' Everyone is an artist.
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The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.
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Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself.
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I am quite wiling to confide entirely in human being, except that at some moment or another human beings get preoccupied, moody, busy, inattentive, and there come an end to the interest, and this never happens in a journal!
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I don't hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you into me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.
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I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.
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The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.
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My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.
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Everything but happiness is neurosis.
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The poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive.
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When I am most deeply rooted, I feel the wildest desire to uproot myself.
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Love men and women not for their strength but their softness, not for their fullness but their hunger, not for their plenty but their need.
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Perhaps a child, like a cat, is so much inside of himself that he does not see himself in the mirror.
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Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be...including our perception. Of it
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If one's conscious life is too rigid, too regimented, then the surface may crack at times, and we are unprepared for the strange emotions or sensations we experience.
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Warmth, perfume, rugs, soft lights, books. They do not appease me. I am aware of time passing, of all the world contains that I have not seen, of all the interesting people I have not met.
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Stations and airports are rehearsals for separations by death.
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