The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation.
Balance is not to be sought by association with others; it must exist within one's self.
Woman does not forget she needs the fecundator, she does not forget that everything that is born of her is planted in her.
I palliate the sufferings of others. yes I see myself as softening the blows, dissolving acids, neutralizing poisons, every moment of the day. I try to fulfill the wishes of others, to perform miracles. I exert myself performing miracles.
Tropical nights are hammocks for lovers.
The complaints of the child in us will never cease lamenting until it is consoled, answered, understood. Only then will it lie still in us, like our fears. It will die in peace and leave us what the child leaves to the man - the sense of wonder.
Human beings can reach such desperate solitude that they may cross a boundary beyond which words cannot serve, and at such moments there is nothing left for them but to bark.
I don't mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated
The richest source of creation is feeling, followed by a vision of its meaning.
There were silences in my head. I could abandon myself completely to the pleasure of multiple relationships, to the beauty of the day, to the joys of the day. It was as if a cancer in me had ceased gnawing me. The cancer of introspection.
Sometimes I think of Paris not as a city but as a home.
At a lecture I am asked to pronounce my name three times. I try to be slow and emphatic, "Anaïs - Anaïs - Anaïs. You just say "Anna" and then add "ees," with the accent on the "ees."
What I cannot love, I overlook. Is that real friendship?
When I hear of people who weary of each other, I believe it is because they have sought virtues in themselves alone, attractions of physical beauty. Have they based their love on each other's thoughts? Who can weary of thoughts which change every day?
I prefer by far the warmth and softness to mere brilliancy and coldness. Some people remind me of sharp dazzling diamonds. Valuable but lifeless and loveless. Others, of the simplest field flowers, with hearts full of dew and with all the tints of celestial beauty reflected in their modest petals.
I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.
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.
One discovers that destiny can be diverted, that one does not have to remain in bondage to the first wax imprint made on childhood sensibilities. Once the deforming mirror has been smashed, there is a possibility of wholeness. There is a possibility of joy.
I have no brakes on...analysis is for those who are paralyzed by life.
Also, I do not like the companionship of women. They are petty and personal. They hang on to their mysteries and secrets, they act and pretend. I like the character of men better.
I needed to live, but I also needed to record what I lived.
Each friend represents a world in us.
There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through.
There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.
Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.
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