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The softness of the summer day like an ermine paw.

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
Paws
Softness
Summer
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We celebrate peace. Yet we pay no attention to the ways of curing aggression in human beings. And when one sees in psychoanalysis hostility disappearing as people conquer their fears, one wonders if the cure is not there.
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Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go.
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Whenever you do something that is not aligned with the yearning or your soul—you create suffering.
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The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.
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Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.
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His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.
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atrophy of feeling creates criminals.
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I stopped loving my father a long time ago. What remained was the slavery to a pattern.
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The complaints of the child in us will never cease lamenting until it is consoled, answered, understood. Only then will it lie still in us, like our fears. It will die in peace and leave us what the child leaves to the man - the sense of wonder.
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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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One may gain one truth at the expense of another.
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Memory is a great betrayer.
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One handles truths like dynamite. Literature is one vast hypocrisy, a giant deception, treachery. All writers have concealed more than they revealed.
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There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.
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Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.
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The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
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the cynic is a coward. He foresees all barrenness so that barrenness can never surprise him.
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I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .
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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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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
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