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

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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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Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.
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Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.
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Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.
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When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.
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No one should be forced to carry the unfulfilled self of another.
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The way to recognize a dead word is that it exudes boredom.
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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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I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth itself.
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perhaps the only magician we have is the artist.
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Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.
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I prefer empty cages, Sabina, until I find a unique bird I once saw in my dreams.
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I sat there for three hours and did not feel the time or the boredom of our talk and its foolish disconnection. As long as I could hear his voice, I was quite lost, quite blind, quite outside my own self.
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Then at certain moments I remember one of his words and I suddenly feel the sensual woman flaring up, as if violently caressed. I say the word to myself, with joy. It is at such a moment that my true body lives.
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gold never comes to the dreamers - except in dreams.
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Anxiety is love's greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.
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His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.
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Sometimes we reveal ourselves when we are least like ourselves.
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I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go.
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I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.
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