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Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself.

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
Shame
Told
Lying
Someone

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Stations and airports are rehearsals for separations by death.
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You fall in love with people's minds.
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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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I often see how you sob over what you destroy, how you want to stop and just worship and you do stop, and then a moment later you are at it again with a knife, like a surgeon.
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Poetry is the alchemy which teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.
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They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.
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Jazz is the music of the body.
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I wanted to remember in order to be able to return.
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A war regarded as inevitable or even probable, and therefore much prepared for, has a very good chance of eventually being fought.
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Life is a full circle, widening until it joins the circle motions of the infinite.
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I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
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The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.
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I will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.
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To commit suicide is easy. To live without a god is more difficult. The drunkenness of triumph is greater than the drunkenness of sacrifice.
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Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.
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When I stand at the top of the Champs-Elysées, with its chestnut trees in flower, its undulations of shining cars, its white spaciousness, I feel as if I were biting into a utopian fruit, something velvety and lustrous and rich and vivid.
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I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.
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Each friend represents a world in us.
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He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie.
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Physical experiences, lacking the joys of love, depend on twists and perversions of pleasure. Abnormal pleasures kill the taste for normal ones.
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