The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. One - Anaïs Nin

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I divined her life at that moment. She only believed in intimacy and proximity, in confessions born in the darkness of a bedroom, in quarrels born of alcohol, in communions born of exhausting walks through the city. She only believed in words which came like the confessions of criminals after long exposure to hunger, to intense lights, to cross-examination, to violent tearing away of masks.

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