anais-nin

Innocence was gone from all our acts. Our habitual state of rebellion became a serious political crime.

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__ language, entering Henry__ 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.

When you trust, you are tender and delicate, but when you doubt, you are dangerous and destructive

In chaos, there is fertility.

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.

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.

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.

I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.

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

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__ lips in the face of great catastrophes which are beyond their grasp, the smile that comes at times on certain women__ 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.

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.