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The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.

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
Diaries
Evening
Period
Periods
Remains
Ordeal
Wants
Ordeals
Without
Opium
Every
Diary

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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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I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
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I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.
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Love men and women not for their strength but their softness, not for their fullness but their hunger, not for their plenty but their need.
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A war regarded as inevitable or even probable, and therefore much prepared for, has a very good chance of eventually being fought.
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There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do.
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We do not see the world as it is. We see the word as we are.
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With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness... something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.
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The core of creation is to summon an image and the power to work with the image.
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I have this weird obsession about buying books and looking at them with a smile, even if I won't read them soon. At least they are mine now.
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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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When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?
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The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.
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I must know, he thinks. It must be clear to me. There is a world which is closed to him, a world of shadings, gradations, nuances, and subtleties. He is a genius and yet he is too explicit. June slips between his fingers. You cannot posses without loving.
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There is a resemblance between men and women, not a contrast. When a man begins to recognize his feeling, the two unite. When men accept the sensitive side of themselves, they come alive.
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Is devotion to others a cover for the hungers and the needs of the self, of which one is ashamed? I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not virtue. It was a disguise.
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Then at certain moments I remember one of his words and I suddenly feel the sensual woman flaring up, as if violently caressed. I say the word to myself, with joy. It is at such a moment that my true body lives.
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I had a feeling that Pandora's box contained the mysteries of woman's sensuality, so different from a man's and for which man's language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.
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Art is the method of levitation, in order to separate one's self from enslavement by the earth.
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I believe the lasting revolution comes from deep changes in ourselves which influence our collective life.
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