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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
Sleep
Carpets
Moss
Cotton
Carpet
Branches
Clouds
Feet

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I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.
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I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.
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Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.
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The ivory tower of the artist may be the only stronghold left for human values, cultural treasures, man’s cult of beauty.
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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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To write at the same temperature at which I live I should write nothing but poetry.
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Coming near him like a ballet dancer she took a leap towards him, and he, frightened by her vehemence, and fearing that she would crash against him, instinctively became absolutely rigid, and she felt herself embracing a statue.
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The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
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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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Life, religion and art all converge in Bali. They have no word in their language for 'artist' or 'art.' Everyone is an artist.
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A man fell in love with Jeanne, and she tried to love him. But she complained that he uttered such ordinary words, that he could never say the magic phrase which would open her being.
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We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
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All the art of analysis consists in saying a truth only when the other person is ready for it, has been prepared for it by an organic process of gradation and evolution.
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We have been poisoned by fairy tales.
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I can elect something I love and absorb myself in it.
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There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.
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I only regret that everybody wants to deprive me of the journal, which is the only steadfast friend I have, the only one which makes my life bearable, because my happiness with human beings is so precarious, my confiding moods rare, and the least sign of non-interest is enough to silence me. In the journal I am at ease.
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I spell 'god' with a small 'g' because I do not believe in him, but I love to swear by him.
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The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
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I have so strong a sense of creation, of tomorrow, that I cannot get drunk, knowing I will be less alive, less well, less creative the next day.
Anais Nin