“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings -- of tarnishings.”
― Anaïs Nin
“We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.”
― Anaïs Nin
“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”
― Anaïs Nin
“The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.”
― Anaïs Nin
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating 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.
Some never awaken.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
Anaïs made love with her words and created orgasms with her thoughts.
The difference between porn and erotica, is that in porn the sex happens without purpose or reason, and has no effect on the plot. I don't like porn, because I personally believe it gives young people an false expectation of how long it will take a plumber to show up when called.
Erotica is fueled by the sex, given fire and detonated by the climaxes. The whole thing would fall to pieces and wither if those characters didn't have that sex. The writing, the words the full gambit of emotion and connection is laced with sexual energy you can feel in your blood, like the pounding of witch drums thrumming the pines deep in black forests.
We're not talking about romance or love or any of that other cyanide tainted emotional tripe that only succeeds in hanging on its victim new and creative shrouds -- shrouds for living in soul-rending pain without dying, and calling it rebirth.
Love is displacement of life and moments. People ask in gaping bewilderment, "am I in love? is this love? Is it real love?" Daily you find them in subway stations and murmuring down the aisles of Congress.
No one has to ask, "Have I been fucked?"
Erotica is the fire of the gods, the spear of Athena, and the voice of Poseidon.
― Anaïs Nin
“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”
― Anaïs Nin
“The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.”
― Anaïs Nin
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating 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.
Some never awaken.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934
The difference between porn and erotica, is that in porn the sex happens without purpose or reason, and has no effect on the plot. I don't like porn, because I personally believe it gives young people an false expectation of how long it will take a plumber to show up when called.
Erotica is fueled by the sex, given fire and detonated by the climaxes. The whole thing would fall to pieces and wither if those characters didn't have that sex. The writing, the words the full gambit of emotion and connection is laced with sexual energy you can feel in your blood, like the pounding of witch drums thrumming the pines deep in black forests.
We're not talking about romance or love or any of that other cyanide tainted emotional tripe that only succeeds in hanging on its victim new and creative shrouds -- shrouds for living in soul-rending pain without dying, and calling it rebirth.
Love is displacement of life and moments. People ask in gaping bewilderment, "am I in love? is this love? Is it real love?" Daily you find them in subway stations and murmuring down the aisles of Congress.
No one has to ask, "Have I been fucked?"
Erotica is the fire of the gods, the spear of Athena, and the voice of Poseidon.
