“She was tied to the moon by long threads of red tangled blood. She moved like a woman tied to the moon… it enveloped her and it opened her to an absolute night without dawn.”
— Anaïs Nin.
seen from France
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Tunisia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Russia
seen from Italy
seen from Canada
“She was tied to the moon by long threads of red tangled blood. She moved like a woman tied to the moon… it enveloped her and it opened her to an absolute night without dawn.”
— Anaïs Nin.
Come mai ho scelto te? Io ti ho “visto” in quel modo intensamente selettivo – ho visto una bocca che era insieme intelligente, animalesca e soffice. Uno strano miscuglio, un uomo umano, sensitivamente conscio di ogni cosa – e io amo la consapevolezza – un uomo, te l’ho detto, che la vita ha reso ebbro. Il tuo non era un riso che potesse offendere, era dolce e ricco. Mi sentivo calda, con la testa che mi girava, dentro di me cantavo. Henry anche io desidero stare qui a scriverti a lungo, è quasi come esserti vicino.
- Anaïs Nin
Sabina’s face was suspended in the darkness of the garden. From the eyes a simoun wind shriveled the leaves and turned the earth over; all things which had run a vertical course now turned in circles, round the face, around HER face. She stared with such an ancient stare, heavy luxuriant centuries flickering in deep processions. From her nacreous skin perfumes spiraled like incense.
Every gesture she made quickened the rhythm of the blood and aroused a beat chant like the beat of the heart of the desert, a chant which was the sound of her feet treading down into the blood the imprint of her face.
— Anaïs Nin, The House of Incest // Johan Jakob Frey, A caravan caught in the Simum wind near Gizah (1845)
"You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernation are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children.
And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death."
Anais Nin, Diary, Winter 1931-1932
"But I am not always in what I call a state of grace. I have days of illumination and fevers. I have days when the music in my head stops. Then I mend socks, prune trees, can fruits, polish furniture. But when I am doing this I feel I am not living."
Anais Nin, Diary, Winter 1931-1932
"Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous. I want to be a writer who reminds others that these moments exist; I want to prove that there is infinite space, infinite meaning, infinite dimension."
Anais Nin, Diary, Winter 1931-1932
off u go
n sky grey
drive past n thru
on lips n
thirst
eyes black n
gaze
what r we smokin
perhaps i
join u kno
intellectual
anaïs nin
man on the mirror
out of a movie
out of a
scene
and lil might u
kno
i’m disco
theque
floatin thru
space
don’t call
or do
i might
give in
smoke
n mirror
sahara
dust n
summer
he
n summer
he
myself
i’m blasting
loud n
clear
benitez-rojo
cold blowing
wind
