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

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Love men and women not for their strength but their softness, not for their fullness but their hunger, not for their plenty but their need.
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There is an ugliness in being paid for work one does not like.
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I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.
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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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Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.
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To commit suicide is easy. To live without a god is more difficult. The drunkenness of triumph is greater than the drunkenness of sacrifice.
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The personal, if it is deep enough, becomes universal, mythical, symbolic.
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All that is sacred and taboo in the world are meaningless.
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Tropical nights are hammocks for lovers.
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I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.
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There is no bleaker moment in life of the city than that one which crosses the boundary lines between those who have not slept all night and those who are going to work. It was for Sabina as if two races of men and women lived on earth, the night people and the day people, never meeting face to face except at this moment.
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The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned.
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There were silences in my head. I could abandon myself completely to the pleasure of multiple relationships, to the beauty of the day, to the joys of the day. It was as if a cancer in me had ceased gnawing me. The cancer of introspection.
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I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles.
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I'm sick of my own romanticism!
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To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.
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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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Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.
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You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we shared, at some moment, the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage.
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For you and for me the highest moment, the keenest joy, is not when our minds dominate but when we lose our minds, and you and I both lose it in the same way, through love.
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