Quotes from Anais Nin

more damaging was his conviction that we live by a series of repetitions until the experience is solved, understood, liquidated...

I am very near to madness. I imagine my isolation, and I go mad inside, a delirium of doubts and fears.

Now I have this big cheerless studio and I am the saddest man in the world. Everybody says: "What a wonderful place!" But for me it is hell. Hell de luxe, do you get me?

He gave one the feeling that the whole world was now shut out and only this sensual feast existed, that there would be no tomorrows, no meetings with anyone else – that there was only this room, this afternoon, this bed.

I cross the street and walk into the Printemps. I go to the counter with necklaces and bracelets and earrings, which dazzle me always. I stand like a fascinated savage. Glitter. Amethyst. Turquoise. Shell pink. Irish green. I would like to be naked and cover myself in cold crystal jewelry. Jewelry and perfume.

Henry, there are moments when I am almost frightened at the way you have invaded me. Don't talk about others, for instance; it is all external—contrast, not penetration.

The women cannot go out except to go to church or to the bullfight, and even that is unusual. I consider it a very ugly custom, and if I couldn't go out as I wished, I would leave this country [Spain], if only because of that one custom of the inhabitants.

to press me hotly, and we dance, sexes soldered, hot, burning, saying: Open your legs, God, I want you like hell, I could take you right here. Whore, whore, whore at last.

Small talk is like the air that shatters the stalactites into dust again. I do not participate. I wait. I laugh. I am aware that shallowness disintegrates the deeper undercurrents everyone seeks. The underground rivers of dreams, of deeper and deeper selves running underneath. I prefer my submarine region.

All through the dream there was a sense of great disorder, of movements which accomplished nothing, of everything being late, of everybody waiting, restless and defeated.

Ordinary life does not interest me.

There is a danger, if one doesn't write habitually, that one will lose the habit. I am always in fear of that. And when you are thinking constantly, writing in your head, writing while you undress, wash your teeth, scrub the dishes, etc. you get roiled and everything turns to mud.

Music spilling out of from the eyes in place of tears, music spilling from the throat in place of words, music falling from his fingertips in place of caresses, music exchanged between them instead of love, yearning of five lines, the five lines of their thoughts , their reveries, their emotions, their unknown self, their giant self, their shadow.

It is[…] true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to receive,to nourish yourself, and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you,sweeps you into experience and into writing.

My body needs it—the hot baths, the care, the soft water, the perfume, the warmth. I take on the colors of the flowers, the bloom, the delicacy. It becomes me.

Because he was so critical, so severe, so suspicious of her, she became secretive and lying. She would never say what she really thought. She was afraid of him.

Fred was afraid of the night, afraid his body would slip away from him, dissolve in that purple velvet with diamond eyes, the tropical night. The tropical night did not lie inert, like a painted movie backdrop, but was filled with whisperings, and seemed to have arms like the foliage. Beauty was a drug. The small beach shone like mercury at their feet.

But before we go on, I want to explain to you why women weep: IT IS THE QUICKEST WAY TO REJOIN THE OCEAN. You liquify, become fluid, flow back into the ocean where the colors are more beautiful

Too late for changes, too late perhaps for explanations and ideological webs, but the love goes on, the love goes on, blind to laws and warnings and even to wisdom and to fears. And whatever that love is, perhaps an illusion of a new love, I want it, I can't resist it, my whole being melts in one kiss, my knowledge melts, my fears melt, my blood dances, my legs open.

The night surrounded me, a photograph unglued from its frame. The lining of a coat ripped open like the two shells of an oyster. The day and the night unglued, and I falling in between not knowing on which layer I was resting, whether it was the cold grey upper leaf of dawn or the dark layer of night.

I don't know, but it is a me that is absolutely trusting, naif, child-like, and that me accepts all the stories, all the lies, all the treachery.

It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing.

Perhaps I have loved the artist because creation is the nearest we come to divinity.

Also, I entreat you: do not show your work in progress to any outsider. I mean Bradley or Kahane, or anyone who is not working with you, following your thought, entering into it. It is confusing. These men are not your co-workers or even friends. These men are outsiders. Keep to yourself. You need a deep cohesion, a strong forward continuity. Admit no opinions until you are through.