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We cannot cure the evils of politics with politics.

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
Cannot
Evils
Cure
Cures
Politics
Evil

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Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.
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I see enormous loves growing immense and finally crushing me.
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It is easy to love and there are so many ways to do it.
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I know no joy as great as a moment of rushing into a new love, no ecstasy like that of a new love.
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That is my essential reason for writing, not for fame, not to be celebrated after death, but to heighten and create life all around me. I also write because when I am writing I reach the high moment of fusion sought by the mystics, the poets, the lovers, a sense of communion with the universe.
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The ivory tower of the artist may be the only stronghold left for human values, cultural treasures, man’s cult of beauty.
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New York seems conducted by jazz, animated by it. It is essentially a city of rhythm.
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Most artists have retired too absolutely they grow rusty, inflexible to the flow of currents.
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Things aren't the way they are, they're the way you are
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I had been struck by the analogy between neurosis and romanticism. Romanticism was truly a parallel to neurosis. It demanded of reality an illusory world, love, an absolute which it could never obtain, and thus destroyed itself by the dream.
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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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She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.
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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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Don't let one cloud obliterate the whole sky.
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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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I walked into my own book, seeking peace. It was night, and I made a careless movement inside the dream I turned too brusquely the corner and I bruised myself against my madness.
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When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.
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One handles truths like dynamite.
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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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she acquired the certainty of the expansion of time by depth of emotion, range and infinite multiplicity of experience.
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