Quote

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

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When I first met him, he did not care if a friend did not fit into his world, because at that time his world had not been born yet.
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She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.
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Our love lives because I live.
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We do not see the world as it is. We see the word as we are.
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Anxiety is love's greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.
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You can either give negativity power over your life or you can choose happiness instead.
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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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There are only two kinds of freedom in the world the freedom of the rich and powerful, and the freedom of the artist and the monk who renounces possessions.
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When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?
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Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
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You fall in love with people's minds.
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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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I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.
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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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For you and for me the highest moment, the keenest joy, is not when our minds dominate but when we lose our minds, and you and I both lose it in the same way, through love.
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Compassion for our parents is the true sign of maturity.
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I cannot concentrate all my friendship on any single one of my friends because no one is complete enough in himself.
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To change skins, evolve into new cycles, I feel one has to learn to discard. If one changes internally one should not continue to live with the same objects. They reflect one's mind and psyche of yesterday. I throw away what has no dynamic, living use.
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I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.
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I can elect something I love and absorb myself in it.
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