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Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?

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
Afraid
Moving
Going

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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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The creative personality never remains fixed on the first world it discovers. It never resigns itself to anything.
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Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society's rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.
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I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.
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He has, like me, a sense of smell. I let him inhale me, then I slip away.
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Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be...including our perception. Of it
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I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously.
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Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.
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Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you.
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Through love, through friendship, a heart lives more than one life.
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I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.
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Will you come down and kiss me good night?
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The preoccupation of the novelist: how to capture the living moments, was answered by the diary. You write while you are alive. You do not preserve them in alcohol until the moment you are ready to write about them.
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I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.
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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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Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.
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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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The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truths is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.
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Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death
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We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.
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