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The suppression of inner patterns in favor of patterns created by society is dangerous to us.

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
Society
Suppression
Conformity
Favor
Favors
Patterns
Inner
Created
Dangerous

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I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.
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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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Truth is something which can't be told in a few words. Those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.
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Nothing too long imagined can be perfect in a wordly way.
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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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Either one fails in one's art or in one's life.
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Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness.
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the cynic is a coward. He foresees all barrenness so that barrenness can never surprise him.
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You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.
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When you make a world tolerable for yourself, you make a world tolerable for others.
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Life, religion and art all converge in Bali. They have no word in their language for 'artist' or 'art.' Everyone is an artist.
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To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.
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Coming near him like a ballet dancer she took a leap towards him, and he, frightened by her vehemence, and fearing that she would crash against him, instinctively became absolutely rigid, and she felt herself embracing a statue.
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You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we shared, at some moment, the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage.
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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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The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw.
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Convalescence. Such an utter weakness that you lie like an animal hibernating, playing possum. You float. You are adrift. Every current is stronger than you.
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The inner chambers of the soul are like the photographer's darkroom. Like a laboratory. One cannot stay there all the time or it becomes the solitary cell of the neurotic.
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Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.
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