Love

April 23, 2017

a man lying over me

March 12, 2017

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each act of love…

August 15, 2016

Amen by Maxoperandi

Man can never know the loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in the woman’s womb only to gather strength, he nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion. Woman may be busy too, but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she is bathed, and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child rearing and man bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to be. But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment man rests inside of her.

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

range of your vision…

April 14, 2016

dreamdance

You can only see in others what your nature allows you to see. The range of your vision depends on the extent of the personal development. The personal, if it is deep enough, becomes universal, mythical, symbolic; I never generalize, intellectualize. I see, I hear, I feel. These are my primitive instruments of discovery.

Anaïs Nin
The Diary Of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

dancer5

Man can never know the loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in the woman’s womb only to gather strength, he nourishes himself from this fusion, and then he rises and goes into the world, into his work, into battle, into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy, completion. Woman may be busy too, but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she is bathed, and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb, she is fulfilled, each act of love a taking of man within her, an act of birth and rebirth, of child rearing and man bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act, to be. But for woman, the climax is not in the birth, but in the moment man rests inside of her.

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

The language of sex…

October 26, 2015

Gentle by Eajna

I had a feeling that Pandora’s box contained the mysteries of woman’s sensuality, so different from a man’s and for which man’s language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.

Anaïs Nin
Delta of Venus

I hate rarely…

October 22, 2015

face2

Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously. For example now, I hate the bank and everything connected with it. I also hate Dutch paintings, penis-sucking, parties, and cold rainy weather. But I am much more preoccupied with loving.

Anaïs Nin
Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love”-The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin

shackles me…

October 2, 2015

folds

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
Diaries

I lie imperceptibly…

August 16, 2015

nin

When I talk, I feel that I lie imperceptibly in order to cover myself. I put on costumes. I hate to expose myself truly. Lies seem like a costume, small lies, deviations mostly, because I am afraid not to be understood, and I am afraid of the pain. And then what I do not tell, I pour into the journal. I chafe because people don’t understand, and it is my fault. The truth is I only face human beings in fragments… I always find the mensonge vital necessary — the one lie which separates me from each person.

Anais Nin
Diaries
(Anyone interested there’s a very good article HERE on Nin and her diaries – or liaries)

A remarkable performance…

August 13, 2015

DiariesAnaisNin

There is no doubt it is a remarkable performance that should someday be published and may well achieve permanence as the ultimate in neurotic self-absorption, a kind of decadent St. Theresa. Certainly the writing is extraordinary, the cadences, the ability to communicate an intensity of emotion. But I don’t think this is the time to bring it out. Today such morbid preoccupation with one’s inner life will seem trivial.

Houghton Mifflin
1942 letter to Anais Nin rejecting her diaries