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The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.

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
Went
Strangling
Morning
Thread
Back
Throat
Book
Broke
Coughed
Heart
Held
Yanked
Something
Bed
Spat
Begin
Coming
Spats

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The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.
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Everything but happiness is neurosis.
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Art is the method of levitation, in order to separate one's self from enslavement by the earth.
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We are all engaged in the task of peeling off the false selves, the programmed selves, the selves created by our families, our culture, our religions. It is an enormous task because the history of women has been as incompletely told as the history of blacks.
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I wanted to remember in order to be able to return.
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When I first met him, he did not care if a friend did not fit into his world, because at that time his world had not been born yet.
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I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.
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The dangerous time when mechanical voices, radios, telephones, take the place of human intimacies, and the concept of being in touch with millions brings a greater and greater poverty in intimacy and human vision.
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If I fall asleep, it is because I am overloaded. I sleep because one hour with Henry contains five years of my life, and one phrase, one caress answers the expectations of a hundred nights. When I hear him laugh, I say, I have heard Rabelais.. And I swallow his laughter like bread and wine.
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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.
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The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body.
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The richest source of creation is feeling, followed by a vision of its meaning.
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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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Passion gives me moments of wholeness.
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it was while helping others to be free that I gained my own freedom.
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I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I don't know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness. In reality those who satisfy me are those who simply allow me to live with my ''idea of them.
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I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
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But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.
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Good things happen to those who hustle.
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Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.
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