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How well I know with what burning intensity you live. You have experienced many lives already, including several you have shared with me- full rich lives from birth to death, and you just have to have these rest periods in between.

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
Live
Periods
Wells
Birth
Intensity
Well
Already
Shared
Many
Rest
Experienced
Full
Several
Rich
Burning
Lives
Stress
Death
Including

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... and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.
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To mistake ugliness for reality is one of the frauds of the realistic school [of writing]. A hunger for the unknown and an aspiration toward beauty were inseparable from civilization. In America the word art was distorted to mean artificial.
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Beware of allowing a tactless word, a rebuttal, a rejection to obliterate the whole sky
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I see myself wrapped in lies, which do not seem to penetrate my soul, as if they are not really a part of me. They are like costumes.
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He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie.
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To lie, of course, is to engender insanity.
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The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror.
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Not afraid of poverty and drabness and who is untouched by it, untouched by the drunkenness of her friends (she) who judges, selects, discards people with severity, who knows, when she is telling her endless anecdotes, that they are ways of escape, keeping herself all the more secret behind that profuse talk.
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The value of the personal relationship to all things is that it creates intimacy and intimacy creates understanding and understanding creates love.
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I stopped loving my father a long time ago. What remained was the slavery to a pattern.
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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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Keeping a Diary all my life helped me to discover some basic elements essential to the vitality of writing.
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There is an ugliness in being paid for work one does not like.
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My diary seems to keep me whole.
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One handles truths like dynamite.
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There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.
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I want to hear raucous music, to see faces, to brush against bodies, to drink fiery Benedictine. Beautiful women and handsome men arouse fierce desires in me. I want to dance. I want drugs. I want to know perverse people, to be intimate with them. I never look at naive faces. I want to bite into life, and to be torn by it.
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The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer.
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Guilt is the one burden human beings can't bear alone.
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One must be thrust out of a finished cycle in life, and that leap is the most difficult to make - to part with one's faith, one's love, when one would prefer to renew the faith and recreate the passion.
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