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We celebrate peace. Yet we pay no attention to the ways of curing aggression in human beings. And when one sees in psychoanalysis hostility disappearing as people conquer their fears, one wonders if the cure is not there.

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
Peace
Celebrate
Psychoanalysis
Human
Sees
Wonders
Humans
Disappear
Hostility
Way
Beings
Aggression
People
Pay
Cure
Ways
Cures
Wonder
Fears
Curing
Attention
Conquer
Disappearing

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Every individual is representative of the whole . . . and should be intimately understood, and this would give a far greater understanding of mass movements and sociology.
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Compassion for our parents is the true sign of maturity.
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Not afraid of poverty and drabness and who is untouched by it, untouched by the drunkenness of her friends (she) who judges, selects, discards people with severity, who knows, when she is telling her endless anecdotes, that they are ways of escape, keeping herself all the more secret behind that profuse talk.
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Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through.
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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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Poetry is the alchemy which teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.
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Hollywood is a mirage factory.
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One discovers that destiny can be diverted, that one does not have to remain in bondage to the first wax imprint made on childhood sensibilities. Once the deforming mirror has been smashed, there is a possibility of wholeness. There is a possibility of joy.
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One must be thrust out of a finished cycle in life, and that leap is the most difficult to make - to part with one's faith, one's love, when one would prefer to renew the faith and recreate the passion.
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Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?
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This great handsomeness I took into myself later when he desired me, but I took it as one breathes air, or swallows a snowflake, or yields to the sun.
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What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.
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Innocence was gone from all our acts. Our habitual state of rebellion became a serious political crime.
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Three or four threads may be agitated, like telegraph wires, at the same time, and if I were to tap them all I would reveal such a mixture of innocence and duplicity, generosity and calculation, fear and courage, I cannot tell the whole truth simply because I would have to write four journals at once.
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We three belong to the Middle Ages. We have this need of heroism, and there is no place for such feelings in modern life. That is our tragedy. Once I wanted to be a saint. It seemed the only absolute act left to do, for what is most powerful in me is the craving for purity, greatness.
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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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People living deeply have no fear of death.
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The way to recognize a dead word is that it exudes boredom.
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I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.
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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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