Anais Nin shows an occasional grace in writing, but her work is quite foreign to me, precisely because she wants so much to be feminine and not feminist. And then she is so gaga before so many men. She talks about men I know in France, men who were less than nothing, and she considers them kings, extraordinary people.

One's life has value so long as one attributes value to the life of others, by means of love, friendship, indignation and compassion.

Words have to murder reality before they can hold it captive.

You can't assume the responsibility for everything you do or don't do.

The younger and healthier a woman is and the more her new and glossy body seems destined for eternal freshness, the less useful is artifice; but the carnal weakness of this prey that man takes and its ominous deterioration always have to be hidden from him...In any case, the more traits and proportions of a woman seem contrived, the more she delighted the heart of man because she seemed to escape the metamorphosis of natural things. The result is this strange paradox that by desiring to grasp nature, but transfigured, in woman, man destines her to artifice.

Weakness' is weakness only in light of the aims man sets for himself, the instruments at his disposal and the laws he imposes.

A man attaches himself to woman -- not to enjoy her, but to enjoy himself.