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The bed must be a beautiful place, not only because you make love there but because you dream there as well.

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
Wells
Well
Must
Make
Love
Bed
Place
Beautiful
Dream

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He was now in that state of fire that she loved. She wanted to be burnt.
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The obstacle became his alibi for weakness.
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I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life.
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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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At first she beckoned and lured one into her world then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.
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What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.
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Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.
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All the art of analysis consists in saying a truth only when the other person is ready for it, has been prepared for it by an organic process of gradation and evolution.
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The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.
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You cannot save people. You can only love them.
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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.
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When I stand at the top of the Champs-Elysées, with its chestnut trees in flower, its undulations of shining cars, its white spaciousness, I feel as if I were biting into a utopian fruit, something velvety and lustrous and rich and vivid.
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Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go.
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When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.
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She makes use of the soft of the bread for a napkin. She falls asleep at times with shoes on, on unmade beds. When a little money comes in, June buys delicacies, strawberries in the winter, caviar and bath salts.
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I have so strong a sense of creation, of tomorrow, that I cannot get drunk, knowing I will be less alive, less well, less creative the next day.
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The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.
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Solitude may rust your words.
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All of my creation is an effort to weave a web of connection with the world: I am always weaving it because it was once broken.
Anais Nin
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When I cannot bear outer pressures anymore, I begin to put order in my belongings...As if unable to organize and control my life, I seek to exert this on the world of objects.
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