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Houses turn to corpses overnight when we cease to live and love in them.

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
Turn
Turns
House
Live
Love
Overnight
Corpses
Houses
Cease

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Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.
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A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
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Each friend represents a world in us.
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Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.
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The dream has to be translated into reality.
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We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.
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The dangerous time when mechanical voices, radios, telephones, take the place of human intimacies, and the concept of being in touch with millions brings a greater and greater poverty in intimacy and human vision.
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Life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity and stumble from defeat to defeat.
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Expressing feelings is linked directly with creation... In this ability to tap the sources of feeling and imagination lies the secret of abundance.
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There are books which we read early in life, which sink into our consciousness and seem to disappear without leaving a trace. And then one day we find, in some summing-up of our life and put attitudes towards experience, that their influence has been enormous.
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You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.
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Warmth, perfume, rugs, soft lights, books. They do not appease me. I am aware of time passing, of all the world contains that I have not seen, of all the interesting people I have not met.
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[On Paris:] A city never entirely known, yet which gives you the feeling of intimacy, of possessing it intimately.
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Great repressions create dualities.
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But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.
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A trite word is an overused word which has lost its identity like an old coat in a second-hand shop. The familiar grows dull and we no longer see, hear, or taste it.
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Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.
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I am a failure as a writer. The publishers won't publish me, the bookshops won't carry my books, the critics won't write about me. I am excluded from all anthologies, and completely ignored.
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Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness.
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Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.
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