At moments she seems non-human, because she is so unconscious of her acts, unfettered by human considerations or hesitations. She lives as if in a dream, in innumerable impulses and whims, plunging into relationships, destroying unintentionally in her fiery course. She is so busy just being, talking, walking, making love, drinking, that she can achieve nothing else. She refuses to contemplate the meaning of direction in her life. She lives within chaos. So she is just being. Nothing can control her. She is our fantasy let loose upon the world. She does what others do only in their dreams. Mindless, the life of our unconscious without control. There is a fantastic courage in this, to live without laws, without fetters, without thought of consequences. I look with awe on her impulsiveness, her recklessness; She enriches me more than tender devotions of others, the measured loves, the considerate cautiousness of others. I will love her back and enrich her as well.
Tonight everything hurts, not only the separation, but this terrible hunger of body and mind for you which every day you are increasing, stirring more and more. I don’t know what I am writing. Feel me holding you as I have never held you before, more deeply, more sadly, more desperately, more passionately.
Anais Nin, “A Literate Passion: Letters of Anais Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953”. (via extrahopeless)
I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one. I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe.
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.
I always endowed madness with a sacred, poetic value, a mystical value. It seemed to me to be a denial of ordinary life, an effort to transcend it, expand, to go far before the limitations of the human condition.
Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anaïs Nin Volume I 1931-1934 (via milkywaybouquet)
The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned.
We are cruel when someone refuses to play the role in which we have cast him. We judge a person only according to his relationship towards us.
“I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.”
~ Anaïs Nin in a letter she wrote to Henry Miller