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Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.

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
Give
Iridescence
Human
Illusions
Humans
Chemical
Giving
Chemicals
Hats
Illusion
Strange
Given

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Life is a full circle, widening until it joins the circle motions of the infinite.
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You are the poet, you walk inside my dreams.
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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 secret of life was Breath. That was what I always wanted my words to do, to Breathe.
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..he made me understand something very important. Whether because I am a Latin, or because I am a neurotic, I have a need of gestures. I am myself expressive, demonstrative every feeling I have takes on expression: words, gestures, signs, letters, articulateness or action. I need this in others.
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I want to fall in love in such a way that the mere sight of a man, even a block away from me, will shake and pierce me, will weaken me, and make me tremble and soften and melt.
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Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.
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The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.
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Someone told me the delightful story of the crusader who put a chastity belt on his wife and gave the key to his best friend for safekeeping, in case of his death. He had ridden only a few miles away when his friend, riding hard, caught up with him, saying 'You gave me the wrong key!
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There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic.
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To write at the same temperature at which I live I should write nothing but poetry.
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myself ... is merely an instrument to connect life and a myth
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My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.
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Pain is something to master, not to wallow in.
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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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I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .
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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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Convalescence. Such an utter weakness that you lie like an animal hibernating, playing possum. You float. You are adrift. Every current is stronger than you.
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Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself.
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Big Business and Politics are twins, they are the monsters who kill everything, corrupt everything.
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