top of page

“I sat at the typewriter, saying to myself: Write, you weakling; write, you madwoman, write your misery out, write out your guts,
spill out what is choking you, shout obscenely.
Oh, to be free, to be masculine and purely artist. To care only about the art.”

— Anaïs Nin, Incest: From “A Journal of Love”: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin, 1932-1934 (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1993)

bottom of page