1. The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.
2. Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.
3. Life is truly known only to those who suffer, lose, endure adversity and stumble from defeat to defeat.
4. Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.
5. Where the myth fails, human love begins. Then we love a human being, not our dream, but a human being with flaws.
6. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.
7. I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ.
8. There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.
9. Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for center. So we lost our center and have to find it again
10. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
11. Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish it’s source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of withering, of tarnishing.
12. 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 up of layers, cells, constellations.
Quotes by Anaïs Nin