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What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.

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
Kept
Hands
Indissoluble
Stills
Tore
Still
Keeper
Things
Burnt
Keepers
Fragile
Broke

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If you are terribly truthful, the ground will always move from under you, and you will have to shift with the constantly shifting truth.
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This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.
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I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .
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He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie.
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I needed to live, but I also needed to record what I lived.
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Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.
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I have so strong a sense of creation, of tomorrow, that I cannot get drunk, knowing I will be less alive, less well, less creative the next day.
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If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.
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Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.
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The only transformer and alchemist that turns everything into gold is love. The only magic against death, aging, ordinary life, is love.
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I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life.
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America hates the artist. It will not admit: the artist is my soul and I want to kill off my soul.
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In creation alone there is the possibility of perfection.
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I either eat too much or starve myself. Sleep for 14 hours or have insomniac nights. Fall in love very hard or hate passionately. I don't know what grey is. I never did.
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I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness.
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Don't let one cloud obliterate the whole sky.
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I palliate the sufferings of others. yes I see myself as softening the blows, dissolving acids, neutralizing poisons, every moment of the day. I try to fulfill the wishes of others, to perform miracles. I exert myself performing miracles.
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The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
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The monster I kill every day is the monster of realism. The monster who attacks me every day is destruction. Out of the duel comes the transformation. I turn destruction into creation over and over again.
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I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.
Anais Nin