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This image of herself as a not ordinary women, an image which was trembling now in his eyes, might suddenly disappear. Nothing more difficult to live up to than men's dreams.

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
Trembling
Difficult
Disappear
Dream
Suddenly
Women
Live
Image
Might
Ordinary
Nothing
Dreams
Men
Eyes
Eye

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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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I don't hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you into me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.
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Woman does not forget she needs the fecundator, she does not forget that everything that is born of her is planted in her.
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I cannot concentrate all my friendship on any single one of my friends because no one is complete enough in himself.
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When one is pretending the entire body revolts.
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The poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive.
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Three or four threads may be agitated, like telegraph wires, at the same time, and if I were to tap them all I would reveal such a mixture of innocence and duplicity, generosity and calculation, fear and courage, I cannot tell the whole truth simply because I would have to write four journals at once.
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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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The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.
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Societies in decline have no use for visionaries.
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There is not one big cosmic meaning for all, there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.
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Anxiety is loves greatest killer.
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We must protect the minority writers because they are the research workers of literature. They keep it alive. It has been fashionable of late to seek out and force such writers into more popular channels, to the detriment of both writer and an unprepared public.
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My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to find peace with exactly who and what I am. To take pride in my thoughts, my appearance, my talents, my flaws and to stop this incessant worrying that I can’t be loved as I am.
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My life is slowed up by thought and the need to understand what I am living.
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I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.
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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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Asia discovered two remedies for the cruelty of man, art and religion. America discarded both and is drowning in hate and aggressivity.
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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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I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.
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