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He was jealous of her future, and she of his past.

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
Jealous
Future
Past

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The violence and obscenity are left unadulterated, as manifestation of the mystery and pain which ever accompanies the act of creation.
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In my dreams I sleep with everybody.
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When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?
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Since desire always goes towards that which is our direct opposite, it forces us to love that which will make us suffer.
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Perfection is static, And I am in full progress.
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I want to hear raucous music, to see faces, to brush against bodies, to drink fiery Benedictine. Beautiful women and handsome men arouse fierce desires in me. I want to dance. I want drugs. I want to know perverse people, to be intimate with them. I never look at naive faces. I want to bite into life, and to be torn by it.
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I know why families were created with all their imperfections. They humanize you. They are made to make you forget yourself occasionally, so that the beautiful balance of life is not destroyed.
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The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.
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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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I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
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You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.
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Perhaps a child, like a cat, is so much inside of himself that he does not see himself in the mirror.
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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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atrophy of feeling creates criminals.
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Acapulco in the sunset seems like a balm it enters the blood like a drug after one inhalation of the scent of flowers, one glimpse of the bay iridescent like silk, the sunset like the inside of a shell, so much like the flesh of Venus.
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The impetus to grow and live intensely is so powerful in me I cannot resist it. I will work, I will love my husband, but I will fulfill myself.
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Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.
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We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.
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Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.
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Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.
Anais Nin