Quotes About Anais Nin

Quotes tagged as "anais-nin" (showing 1-30 of 36)
Anaïs Nin
“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“There is not one big cosmic meaning for all; there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person.”
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

Anaïs Nin
“In chaos, there is fertility.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together. ”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“To hell, to hell with balance! I break glasses; I want to burn, even if I break myself. I want to live only for ecstasy. I’m neurotic, perverted, destructive, fiery, dangerous - lava, inflammable, unrestrained.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“Good things happen to those who hustle.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“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.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“I'm restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“The man who was once starved may revenge himself upon the world not by stealing just once, or by stealing only what he needs, but by taking from the world an endless toll in payment of something irreplaceable, which is the lost faith.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“And in his eyes he had the look of the cat who inspires a desire to caress but loves no one, who never feels he must respond to the impulses he arouses.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“I feel a little like the moon who took possession of you for a moment and then returned your soul to you. You should not love me. One ought not to love the moon. If you come too near me, I will hurt you.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it
becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities.
"You do not know what you are missing by your micro-scopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.
If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with
tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never-repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odors, but if we expand on this you cry Cut the poetry. No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range,
what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art . . . We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriveled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“Life is a full circle, widening until it joins the circle motions of the infinite.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“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.”
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

Anaïs Nin
“They courted the face on the screen, the face of translucence, the face of wax on which men found it possible to imprint the image of their fantasy.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“How do I look to him?" she asked herself. She got up and brought a long mirror towards the window. She stood it on the floor against a chair. Then she sat down in front of it on the rug and, facing it, slowly opened her legs. The sight was enchanting. The skin was flawless, the vulva, roseate and full. She thought it was like the gum plant leaf with its secret milk that the pressure of the finger could bring out, the odorous moisture that came like the moisture of the sea shells. So was Venus born of the sea with this little kernel of salty honey in her, which only caresses could bring out of the hidden recesses of her body.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“At first I protested and rebelled against poetry. I was about to deny my poetic worlds. I was doing violence to my illusions with analysis, science, and learning Henry’s language, entering Henry’s world. I wanted to destroy by violence and animalism my tenuous fantasies and illusions and my hypersensitivity. A kind of suicide. The ignominy awakened me. Then June came and answered the cravings of my imagination and saved me. Or perhaps she killed me, for now I am started on a course of madness.”
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

Anaïs Nin
“I looked at it [revolver] as if it reminded me of a crime I had committed with an irrepressible smile such as rises sometimes to people’s lips in the face of great catastrophes which are beyond their grasp, the smile that comes at times on certain women’s faces while they are saying they regret the harm they have done. It is the smile of nature quietly and proudly asserting its natural right to kill.”
Anaïs Nin

Anaïs Nin
“Her elongated eyes did not close as other women's eyes did, but like the eyes of tigers, pumas and leopards, the two lids meeting lazily and slowly; and they seemed slightly sewn together towards the nose, making them narrow, with a lascivious, oblique glance falling from them like the glance of a woman who does not want to see what is being done to her body. All this gave her an air of being made love to, which aroused the Baron as soon as he met her.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“They walked in silence through the little streets of Chinatown. Women from all over the world smiled at them from open windows, stood on the doorsteps inviting them in. Some of the rooms were exposed to the street. Only a curtain concealed the beds. One could see couples embracing. There were Syrian women wearing their native costume, Arabian women with jewelry covering their half-naked bodies, Japanese and Chinese women beckoning slyly, big African women squatting in circles, chatting together. One house was filled with French whores wearing short pink chemises and knitting and sewing as if they were at home. They always hailed the passers-by with promises of specialities. The houses were small, dimly lit, dusty, foggy with smoke, filled with dusky voices, the murmurs of drunkards, of lovemaking. The Chinese adorned the setting and made it more confused with screens and curtains, lanterns, burning incense, Buddhas of gold. It was a maze of jewels, paper flowers, silk hangings, and rugs, with women as varied as the designs and colors, inviting men who passed by to sleep with them.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“A writer, who was a celebrity in Paris, had entered her shop one day. He was not looking for a hat. He asked if she sold luminous flowers that he had heard about, flowers which shone in the dark. He wanted them, he said, for a woman who shone in the dark. He could swear that when he took her to the theatre and she sat back in the dark loges in her evening dress, her skin was as luminous as the finest of sea shells, with a pale pink glow to it. And he wanted these flowers for her to wear in her hair.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

Anaïs Nin
“Like the Baron, Mathilde developed a formula for acting out life as a series of roles—that is, by saying to herself in the morning while brushing her blond hair, "Today I want to become this or that person," and then proceeding to be that person.
One day she decided she would like to be an elegant representative of a well-known Parisian modiste and go to Peru. All she had to do was to act the role. So she dressed with care, presented herself with extraordinary assurance at the house of the modiste, was engaged to be her representative and given a boat ticket to Lima.
Aboard ship, she behaved like a French missionary of elegance. Her innate talent for recognizing good wines, good perfumes, good dressmaking, marked her as a lady of refinement.”
Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus

“John Keats ghost and me, explore poets, in his diving bell" Sylvia Plath effect."
I saw Syvla Plath one day, in the flesh, in a dusty cafe - in the pergatory layer, that looks a lot like Nebraska - though, it doesn't smell the same . She was talking to a man about 52 or 54, but don't quote me on it. He was clasping a cigarette between his lips - as if it were a war grenade. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that man was Hemmingway - but it can't be, that much beauty can't be in one place; all at once - especially this place, the place of the damned, tormented, and covered in word dust from tongue to sole. There are layers peeled off here, that only gets worse - every time someone gets trigger-finger happy again,nso layers peeled off, often I wonder, if anyone has made it to the marrow yet. We' refer to it as the layer system, a measurement to see just how much sadness and love a poet can carry with then, before they break open.
I look at Sylvia Plath and her mid-day, cafe, company. He is facing the other way, his exhales spiral, and seep into everyone elses nicotine-whimpers. If that doesn't smell like living poetry, I don't know what does. He laughed sonorous - I look over again - she smiles back at him, her eyes catch my glance and for a fleeting moment our smiles spark then din again., we are all only familiar strangers here, but when our eyes smile, we know each other well.

I'm sitting in a bleak, poets cafe - they smoke cigarettes, and let poetry roll from their tongues, almost like tidal waves,. Our hearts and our sleeves rolled up, and placed with a message, inside a glass bottle. John Keats is sitting at my table- he often recites old newspapers he once read, inside of time - we are now the things outside looking in, one beautiful thing about it, is, We are all timeless here, Timeless and ethereal.
My name - I do not have a name. Maybe a subtle name, it is not important.
I am nameless here. I did not stain the same as everyone else in here, but like everyone else, I left the world with blood stains and blackened eyes. We beat so much beauty out of it, all we had left was the pulp and a goodbye - giving the world one last jab with our pens. Before we clench on to triggers, as if our life depended on it.

I overhear say, that one day, she wants something important to be named after her. Like sun-rays, tourquise-blue, homemade diving bells, the poets use - while everyone else stands on the shorelines, breathing in salt, sifting through gloom,
"we breathe It all in."
We felt pity, for the day-walkers, who could only see beauty in shallow wave-poetry, their toes still crushing sand, under the horizon rippling.
"What's life if you're not going to live it deep-rooted. "
"We are the brave ones." He said back.
"Our diving bells might be half-cracked, and welded inconsitently, but we go where most can't stomach. Sometimes, if the florescent lighting is bright enough - we reflect in reverie. More often, we reflect tragedies, and turn our words into flowers blooming beauty, with gun powder instead of pollen.”
Amber Dawn H.

“John Keats ghost and me, sit in a purgatory cafe, and he's insisting there is poetry in between the creases of newspaper pages. - "Sylvia Plath effect"


There is no time here, but it looks like a nightshade, funny how fast things feel when you want to pause it.
I'm in a dead poets café, sitting straight across from Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemmingways doppelganger, and another man that approaches, and he sits in the empty chair - his voice slurred, his eyes stirred, loud - his words tailgaiting each other - his shirt wore tacky patterns, and his lips clung to a bakelite-holder in his mouth. He looked around - half-disgruntled, half-beauty, full- anxiety.
Too many drugs, I thought to myself.
He has that LSD smile, at a 5am - inside a casino -
on Thursday, look about him.

John Keats starts hitting his spoon along the rim of his coffee,
"just removing the word dust before stirring It's everywhere in this place ."
Then poured half the jar of sugar in his dark, pupil coloured coffee.

"We are the haunted, 3am-restless, with storms living inside us, we are the suffering and tormented spirits, though, someone has to carry it - I've never met a person that our weathered ghosts attatched to, quite like the way the living attatched themselves to us. We are the diving bell conductors - we are not metal-smiths, we are wordsmiths with our tongues welded - temporarly strong enough to withstand a novel, of living-breathing poetry. We live in the sighs of moth wings, and the whimpers in coyotes howling. We are stirred restless, along with everything out fingertips touch."

"I've always been told I have that effect on people too. Here's to us!" she says.”
Amber Dawn H.

“John Keats ghost and me, sit in a purgatory cafe, and he's insisting there is poetry in between the creases of newspaper pages. - "Sylvia Plath effect"


There is no time here, but it looks like a nightshade right now, funny how fast things feel when you want to pause it.
I'm in a dead poets café, sitting straight across from Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemmingways doppelganger, and another man that approaches, and sits in the empty chair beside her. -
His voice slurred, his eyes stirred, wide and loud - his words, tailgaiting each other.
There is a ketchup stain on the left side of his shirt, tacky patterns, a drab color - he clung to a bakelite-holder with his mouth. He looked - half-disgruntled, full of half-beauty, full- anxiety.
Too many drugs, I thought to myself.
He has that LSD smile, at a 5am -
inside a casino -
on Thursday, look about him.

John Keats starts hitting his spoon along the rim of his coffee,
"just removing the word dust before stirring It's everywhere in this place ." Then poured half the jar of sugar in his dark, pupil coloured coffee.

"We are the haunted, 3am-restless, with storms living inside us, we are the suffering and tormented spirits, though, someone has to carry it - I've never met a person that our weathered ghosts attatched to, quite like the way the living attatched themselves to us. We are the diving bell conductors - we are not metal-smiths, we are wordsmiths with our tongues welded - temporarly strong enough to withstand a novel, of living-breathing poetry. We live in the sighs of moth wings, and the whimpers in coyotes howling. We are stirred restless, along with everything out fingertips touch."
"I've always been told I have that effect on people too. Here's to us!" she says.”
Amber Dawn H.

“John Keats ghost went for a bathroom break, I hid his spoon, so he can't tap it against his coffee cup again - Sylvia Plath effect:
I saw Syvla Plath once, in a dusty café, in the purgatory layer, right after the one that looked like Nebraska. What can I say, we repeat our mistakes to feel alive again. we peel layers off & meet each other again. She is sitting with Ernest Hemingways doppelganger, & a man on her left, with a cigarette burned down to the filter - he smells like nicotine and the faint scent of bat guano wafts off of him as he refills his coffee. He pulled a flask out of his pocket, along with three-quarters, a crushed mint candy, two crumpled up pieces of paper, a piece of lint that went through his hurricane cycle, 3 broken cigarettes, & a casino chip worth nothing anymore.
"Amazing what people bring with them. " Sylvia says.
"The stuff they don't is even more intriguing. "
"I've seen poets, only a stone throw away from wear-no-tear smiles - they pocket the stones instead, & decide that it's a good day to go for a swim."
"you can't bleed sadness out of poets." She says.
"You can't bleed the sadness that stains stones either. "

There's that poet down on highway 10, who sits by Ravens-Bay, sometimes you hear her howling to the wolves, sometimes she is a soft whimper for the waves - her pockets stitched, but she repeats her mistakes. There is that man, who sits there too, wrapped in purple silken - a murder he keeps as company, he is pale like the moon. when the sun rises here, & this hushed world begins sleeping, you hear him calling between the sentence intervals, then starts writing again. "Lenore, Lenore & now Virginia 'nevermore. " He says. We are the sorrow-souls, the sighs prodded into poems - lips curved into goodbye. There's always something we are calling for - at times, we say it so much, - we turn our lips raw and dry of silence. We are the souls in flames, broad-midnight walkers, a sadness that cannot be tamed. we sleep under the sun, & let the moon stir us like tidal. waves. The smalls of our backs bent like a tree, that finally felt the angry-passion, thick-breathed, wind pulled away from its reverie. We are cursed, to repeat a loop of sorrow that tastes like venomous sugar cane, & sounds like a record skip between the wafting gunshots. Cracked &tormented - Mr. rigors with the trigger fingers, Ms. lost her smile, a rock fixture, in the ocean now. We live for this. This is raw beauty. sitting in a café, we are ethereal & timeless. We use our words to skip the rules of being time-stamped with expiry dates. If that's not poetry, then I don't know what is. A lot of things are poetic here, at the purgatory café, that's always open.”
Amber Dawn H.

“John Keats ghost goes home to sleep for the day, he will be back tomorrow, midnight, bright and early. with a newspaper that's dated inside the time we now stand outside of.

Sylvia Plath, & two prodded&raw poets, sit inside a cloud of nicotine & poems not yet written - she catches my glance, for the second time tonight & gives one back to me in the faint form of a smile, with threads tied to her melancholy heartstrings. Her lips raw & dry, devoid of silence. She looks away again, to the one on the left.
"I want my antlers back." I heard the other say.
"What use are they here?" his pupils as wide as sudden dark skies, where the moon beached itself and crawled away.
"Today feels like an ending." she said.
"Sometimes endings are better than no endings at all." Mr. Rigor with the trigger-tongue and white shirt soaked in gunpowder said.
A hurried pause, two records skipping again, a 10 minute conversation about antlers. Mr. rigor with a chamber of bullets in his pockets, puts his cigarette out, and turns around.
"Goodnight, my kitten." He said
She smiles in the form of goodbye.
The guy on the left waving with 3 fingers, curling into his palms, where scars could be was found, from clenching his pen like a trigger.
For a half whimpered second, I could've sworn that was really Ernest Hemingway,
but nothing can hold that much beauty inside of itself, not even a purgatory café, no one is trained to be smiths of beauty. We try in many layers, and we will
always keep trying, until we reach the marrow.

We are not broken, bent, or obsolete - we are the parting & beginning of life and death, two skies, with a brief interlude of a Tabasco sunset, and then another capering sunrise, between each exhale of nicotine and poems - we are most alive in the pause between Tuesdays end & Wednesdays beginning, on a seven day cycle. We just trap more beauty and cover it in Amber, when we need it we chisel it to fine dust, and blow it on page numbers we title as chapters, in thick-bold lettering.

I'm sitting in a cafe, & for a second, I think I saw stars in the form of liquid, drip from the ceiling, and on top of a man, who is sitting next to sylvia Plath. Her smile and his sodden eyes make the slace between them shimmer, a gold and silver &metalic color.
For a moment, I think I hear a gun whimper in the distance, I'm seeing and hearing a lot of things tonight, im a little disoirientated.
"Tonight is a good night to peel off some layers in this shit hole. "
"I've been told I have that effect on people. "she says.

.”
Amber Dawn H

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