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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.

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
Time
Passing
Rugs
World
Mets
Appease
People
Aware
Perfume
Seen
Contains
Books
Lights
Interesting
Warmth
Light
Passings
Book
Soft

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In music I feel most deeply the passing of things.
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Anxiety is love's greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.
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I needed to live, but I also needed to record what I lived.
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Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.
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All that is sacred and taboo in the world are meaningless.
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There were silences in my head. I could abandon myself completely to the pleasure of multiple relationships, to the beauty of the day, to the joys of the day. It was as if a cancer in me had ceased gnawing me. The cancer of introspection.
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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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When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.
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He has, like me, a sense of smell. I let him inhale me, then I slip away.
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Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.
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The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.
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What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?
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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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I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.
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The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.
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The one who travels like a lover searching for a new passion is suddenly blessed with new eyes, new ears, new senses.
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Stories are the only enchantment possible, for when we begin to see our suffering as a story, we are saved.
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