Quote

I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers.

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
Back
Extravagance
Book
Covers
Giving
Abundance
Like
Sexuality
Thermometers
Letters
Postman
Carry
Bursts
Books
Overflow
Give
Stiff

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The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair. I will be the one woman you will never have...excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.
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We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.
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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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The poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive.
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We are going to the moon that is not very far. Man has so much farther to go within himself.
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How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.
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My trunk, valises and my mind are overpacked.
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Houses turn to corpses overnight when we cease to live and love in them.
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Stations and airports are rehearsals for separations by death.
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Dreams are essential to life.
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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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I am quite wiling to confide entirely in human being, except that at some moment or another human beings get preoccupied, moody, busy, inattentive, and there come an end to the interest, and this never happens in a journal!
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Perhaps a child, like a cat, is so much inside of himself that he does not see himself in the mirror.
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In chaos, there is fertility.
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I prefer empty cages, Sabina, until I find a unique bird I once saw in my dreams.
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Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.
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A man fell in love with Jeanne, and she tried to love him. But she complained that he uttered such ordinary words, that he could never say the magic phrase which would open her being.
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I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.
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We are beginning to see the influence of dream upon reality and reality upon dream.
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There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.
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