Anais Nin
Anais Nin
Anaïs Ninwas an essayist and memoirist born to Cuban parents in France, where she was also raised. She spent some time in Spain and Cuba but lived most of her life in the United States where she became an established author. She wrote journals, novels, critical studies, essays, short stories, and erotica. A great deal of her work, including Delta of Venus and Little Birds, was published posthumously...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth21 February 1903
CityNanterre, France
CountryUnited States of America
It is possible I never learned the names of birds in order to discover the bird of peace, the bird of paradise, the bird of the soul, the bird of desire. It is possible I avoided learning the names of composers and their music the better to close my eyes and listen to the mystery of all music as an ocean. It may be I have not learned dates in history in order to reach the essence of timelessness. It may be I never learned geography the better to map my own routes and discover my own lands. The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.
We see things the way we are, not the way they are.
To change skins, evolve into new cycles, I feel one has to learn to discard
Poetry is the alchemy which teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.
Descendants of pigeons once fed by Keats, Byron, George Sand, Chopin and many other famous lovers are still being fed, and the sudden sound when they all rise together, frightened away, is like the sound of giant sails flapping.
We must protect the minority writers because they are the research workers of literature. They keep it alive. It has been fashionable of late to seek out and force such writers into more popular channels, to the detriment of both writer and an unprepared public.
... only love begets love.
Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.
The one who travels like a lover searching for a new passion is suddenly blessed with new eyes, new ears, new senses.
In every relationship, sooner or later, there is a court scene. Accusations, counter-accusations, a trial, a verdict.
Introspection is a devouring monster.
My trunk, valises and my mind are overpacked.
Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.
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.