Quote

We efface an hour by passionate love, without twists, without aftertaste. When it is finished, it is not finished, we lie still in each other's arms lulled by our love, by tenderness -- sensuality in which the whole being can participate.

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
Arms
Lulled
Hours
Sensuality
Lying
Twists
Stills
Participate
Still
Tenderness
Without
Passionate
Whole
Finished
Aftertaste
Love
Hour
Efface

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The richest source of creation is feeling, followed by a vision of its meaning.
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Self-destructive patterns cause as much suffering as outer catastrophes.
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People who want a sane, static, measurable world take the first aspect of an event or person and stick to it, with an almost self-protective obstinacy, or by a natural limitation of their imaginations. They do not indulge in either deepening or magnifying.
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Our love lives because I live.
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We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.
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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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When one is pretending the entire body revolts.
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When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.
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I often see how you sob over what you destroy, how you want to stop and just worship and you do stop, and then a moment later you are at it again with a knife, like a surgeon.
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Anxiety is love's greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.
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A big enough artist, I say, can eat anything, must eat everything and then alchemize it. Only the feeble writer is afraid of expansion.
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Tropical nights are hammocks for lovers.
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Introspection is a devouring monster. You have to feed it with much material, much experience, many people, many places, many loves, many creations, and then it ceases feeding on you.
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When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existence. I see in you that part of me which is you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, we share the same madness.
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To lie, of course, is to engender insanity.
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We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.
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Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.
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To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.
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Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society's rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.
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