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I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.

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
Carpets
Moss
Cotton
Carpet
Branches
Clouds
Feet
Sleep

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Some people read to confirm their own hopelessness. Others read to be rescued from it.
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Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.
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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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Only when the poet and the scientist work in unison will we have living experiences and knowledge of the marvels of the universe as they are being discovered.
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Balance is not to be sought by association with others it must exist within one's self.
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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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I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world and then I stand revealed and I have shared my kingdom with you.
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The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.
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I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.
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Art is the method of levitation, in order to separate one's self from enslavement by the earth.
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jazz is the expression of America's romantic self, its sensual potency, its lyrical force.
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destruction is ultimately self-destruction.
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The bed must be a beautiful place, not only because you make love there but because you dream there as well.
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To mistake ugliness for reality is one of the frauds of the realistic school [of writing]. A hunger for the unknown and an aspiration toward beauty were inseparable from civilization. In America the word art was distorted to mean artificial.
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Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be...including our perception. Of it
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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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I want to fall in love in such a way that the mere sight of a man, even a block away from me, will shake and pierce me, will weaken me, and make me tremble and soften and melt.
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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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Guilt is the one burden human beings can't bear alone.
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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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