Anaïs Nin najznámejšie citáty
Anaïs Nin citáty a výroky
Anaïs Nin: Citáty v angličtine
Zdroj: The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947
“Sometimes we reveal ourselves when we are least like ourselves.”
Zdroj: Henry and June: From "A Journal of Love"--The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin
D. H. Lawrence : An Unprofessional Study (1932); also quoted in The Mirror and the Garden : Realism and Reality in the Writings of Anais Nin (1971) by Evelyn J. Hinz, p. 40
“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.”
March, 1933 http://books.google.com/books?id=Ps_DtS_PFb4C&q=%22I+postpone+death+by+living+by+suffering+by+error+by+risking+by+giving+by+losing%22&pg=PT203#v=onepage
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
“What I cannot love, I overlook.”
Varianta: What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?
“The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.”
February, 1932
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
Varianta: She lacks the core of sureness, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on reflections of herself in others' eyes. She does not dare to be herself.
Zdroj: Henry and June: From "A Journal of Love"--The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin
“Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.”
February, 1932<!-- p. 51 -->
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
Kontext: We don't have a language for the senses. Feelings are images, sensations are like musical sounds.
“All writers have concealed more than they revealed.”
The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
Kontext: One handles truths like dynamite. Literature is one vast hypocrisy, a giant deception, treachery. All writers have concealed more than they revealed.
Children of the Albatross (1947)
Kontext: In the world of the dreamer there was solitude: all the exaltations and joys came in the moment of preparation for living. They took place in solitude. But with action came anxiety, and the sense of insuperable effort made to match the dream, and with it came weariness, discouragement, and the flight into solitude again. And then in solitude, in the opium den of remembrance, the possibility of pleasure again.
The Diary of Anaïs Nin Vol. 4 (1971); as quoted in Journal of Phenomenological Psychology Vol. 15 (1984)
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
Kontext: We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations.
Winter, 1931-1932 The Diary of Anaïs Nin , Volume One 1931-1934 <!-- p. 11 -->
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
Kontext: I had always believed in Andre Breton's freedom, to write as one thinks, in the order and disorder in which one feels in thinks, to follow sensations and absurd correlations of events and images, to trust to the new realms they lead one into. "The cult of the marvelous." Also the cult of the unconscious leadership, the cult of mystery, the evasion of false logic. The cult of the unconscious as proclaimed by Rimbaud. It is not madness. It is an effort to transcend the rigidities and the patterns made by the rational mind.
February 1954 The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 5 as quoted in Woman as Writer (1978) by Jeannette L. Webber and Joan Grumman, p. 38
Diary entries (1914 - 1974)
Kontext: The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements. It is a materialization, an incarnation of his inner world. Then he hopes to attract others into it. He hopes to impose his particular vision and share it with others. And when the second stage is not reached, the brave artist continues nevertheless. The few moments of communion with the world are worth the pain, for it is a world for others, an inheritance for others, a gift to others, in the end. When you make a world tolerable for yourself, you make a world tolerable for others.
We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely. We write as the birds sing, as the primitives dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it. When I don't write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
House of Incest (1936)
Kontext: The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.
