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Anais Nin Biography

Angela Anaïs Juana Antolina Rosa Edelmira Nin y Culmell (February 21, 1903 – January 14, 1977), known professionally as Anaïs Nin, /ɑːnəiːs niːn/ was an American diarist, essayist, novelist, and writer of short stories and erotica. Born to Cuban parents in France, Nin was the daughter of composer Joaquín Nin and Rosa Culmell, a classically trained singer. Although Nin spent some time in Spain and Cuba, she lived most of her life in the United States, where she became an established author.

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Anais Nin Quotes

I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.

Brilliancy, Dazzling, Field, Flower, Heart, Love

Solitude may rust your words.

May, Rust, Solitude, Words

Paris-New York, the two high tension magnetic poles between life, life of the senses, of the spirit in Paris, and life in action in New York.

Action, New York, Paris, Senses, Two, York

Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.

Doe, Interest, Moments, Ordinary, Surrealists, True Happiness

A war regarded as inevitable or even probable, and therefore much prepared for, has a very good chance of eventually being fought.

Chance, Fought, Inspirational, Probable, War

I sat there for three hours and did not feel the time or the boredom of our talk and its foolish disconnection. As long as I could hear his voice, I was quite lost, quite blind, quite outside my own self.

Blind, Foolish, Long, Self, Three, Voice

Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?

Afraid, Moving

Convalescence. Such an utter weakness that you lie like an animal hibernating, playing possum. You float. You are adrift. Every current is stronger than you.

Animal, Hibernating, Lying, Playing, Stronger

We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.

Disappointment, Honesty, Image, Inspirational, Reality

The ivory tower of the artist may be the only stronghold left for human values, cultural treasures, man’s cult of beauty.

Artist, Beauty, Human, Ivory Tower, Men

We see things the way we are, not the way they are.

See, Things, Way

The child in me could not die as it should have died, because according too legends it must find its father again. The old legends knew, perhaps, that in absence the father becomes glorified, deified, eroticized, and this outrage against God the Father has to be atoned for. The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.

Becomes, Children, Confronted, Father, God, Men

I will not be just a tourist in a world of images.

Images, Tourist, Tourists, World

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.

Suicide, June, Imagination, Deny, Kind, Fantasies

I am quite wiling to confide entirely in human being, except that at some moment or another human beings get preoccupied, moody, busy, inattentive, and there come an end to the interest, and this never happens in a journal!

Busy, Ends, Inattentive, Moments, Quite

When one is pretending, the entire body revolts.

Acceptance, Being Yourself, Body, Pretending, Revolts, Unique

If you can't create, you destroy.

Create, Creativity, Destroy, Destruction, Ifs

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.

Blindness, Dies, Inspiring, Life, Love

A man who lives unrelated to other human beings dies. But a man who lives unrelated to himself also dies.

Beings, Dies, Humans, Lives, Men

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.

Alive, Channels, Fashionable, Keep, Minorities, Research

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