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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
Inside
Bruised
Movement
Careless
Peace
Walked
Night
Corner
Dream
Corners
Book
Madness
Made
Seeking
Turned
More quotes by Anais Nin
We have been poisoned by fairy tales.
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I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.
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the best way to remember a beautiful city or a beautiful painting is to eat something while you are looking at it. The flavor really helps the image to penetrate the body. It fixes it as lacquer does a drawing.
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The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned.
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When you make a world tolerable for yourself, you make a world tolerable for others.
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Your eyes make me shy
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I am quite wiling to confide entirely in human being, except that at some moment or another human beings get preoccupied, moody, busy, inattentive, and there come an end to the interest, and this never happens in a journal!
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The obstacle became his alibi for weakness.
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We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art--we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.
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Poetry is the alchemy which teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.
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Sexual intercourse... a joyous, joyous, joyous, joyous impaling of woman on man's sensual mast.
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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.
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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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In creation alone there is the possibility of perfection.
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Writing more and more to the sound of music, writing more and more like music. Sitting in my studio tonight, playing record after record, writing, music a stimulant of the highest order, far more potent than wine.
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I write emotional algebra.
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Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?
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The dangerous time when mechanical voices, radios, telephones, take the place of human intimacies, and the concept of being in touch with millions brings a greater and greater poverty in intimacy and human vision.
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Paris-New York, the two high tension magnetic poles between life, life of the senses, of the spirit in Paris, and life in action in New York.
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I have no fear of God, and yet fear keeps me awake at night,fear of the devil. And if I believe in the devil, I must believe in God. And if evil is abhorrent to me, I must be a saint. Henry, save me from beatification, from the horrors of static perfection. Precipitate me into the inferno.
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