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I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.

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
Laughing
Mist
Longer
Sink
Deceiving
Sulphur
Doe
Cheat
Mists
Together
Conquer
Mosaics
World
Madness
Conquers
Cry
Deceive
Laugh
Colored

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Coming near him like a ballet dancer she took a leap towards him, and he, frightened by her vehemence, and fearing that she would crash against him, instinctively became absolutely rigid, and she felt herself embracing a statue.
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It is difficult to live with the pure. They do not condemn you they forgive you. This forgiveness is more terrible than a judgment.
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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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I write emotional algebra.
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The richest source of creation is feeling, followed by a vision of its meaning.
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When I don't write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
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When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.
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I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.
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Art is the method of levitation, in order to separate one's self from enslavement by the earth.
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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'm awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
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Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.
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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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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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Those who cannot live fully often become destroyers of life.
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Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.
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Things aren't the way they are, they're the way you are
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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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I know no joy as great as a moment of rushing into a new love, no ecstasy like that of a new love.
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atrophy of feeling creates criminals.
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