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I believe that in judging our actions we are more severe than professional judges. We judge not only our actions, but our thoughts, our intentions, our secret curses, our hidden hate.

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
Action
Professional
Believe
Judge
Intention
Curses
Actions
Judges
Judging
Intentions
Thoughts
Severe
Secret
Hidden
Hate
Curse

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Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.
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Keeping a Diary all my life helped me to discover some basic elements essential to the vitality of writing.
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The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror.
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I would like to have your sureness. I am waiting for love, the core of a woman's life. Don't wait for it, I said. Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you. It was only when I wrote my first book that the world I wanted to live in opened to me.
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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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With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness... something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.
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I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.
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If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.
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Great repressions create dualities.
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You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.
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Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh ... without destroying that moment.
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I'm awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
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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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I did not feel drawn to huxley. He was beautiful physically but again without vibrations or sensory antennae... and I had a painful impression of a psychic blindness. With all his science and knowledge, in the mystic world he blundered.
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New York has an electronic heart.
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To write at the same temperature at which I live I should write nothing but poetry.
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I really believe that if I were not a writer, not a creator, not an experimenter, I might have been a very faithful wife. I think highly of faithfulness. But my temperament belongs to the writer, not to the woman
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Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.
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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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