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I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.

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
Night
Corner
Dream
Corners
Book
Madness
Made
Seeking
Turned
Inside
Bruised
Movement
Careless
Peace
Walked

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Anxiety is loves greatest killer.
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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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I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.
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All unlived emotions turn to inanity.
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One always, sooner or later, comes upon a city which is an image of one's inner cities. Fez is an image of my inner self. ... The layers of the city of Fez are like the layers and secrecies of the inner life. One needs a guide. ... There were in Fez, as in my life, streets which led nowhere, impasses which remained a mystery.
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I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.
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The inner chambers of the soul are like the photographer's darkroom. Like a laboratory. One cannot stay there all the time or it becomes the solitary cell of the neurotic.
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You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.
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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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Either one fails in one's art or in one's life.
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Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.
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We love best those who are, or act for us, a self we do not wish to be or act out.
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In New York the acoustics are good for laughter, for life is all external, all action, no thought, no meditation, no dreaming, no reflection, only the exuberance of action.
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Mature people relate to each other without the need to merge.
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Out of the red and silver and the long cry of alarm to the poet who survives in all human beings, as the child survives in him to this poet she threw an unexpected ladder in the middle of the city and ordained, 'Climb!
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Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.
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The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw.
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The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.
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One must be thrust out of a finished cycle in life, and that leap is the most difficult to make - to part with one's faith, one's love, when one would prefer to renew the faith and recreate the passion.
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