What I'm currently re-reading: The Diary of Anais Nin, volume one 1931-1934.
And here's why I feel like Nin, reincarnated (although she died way after I was born but whatever--details shmetails):
P. 65: "If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation."
P. 89: "I too am interested in evil, and I want my Dionysian life, drunkenness and passion and chaos; and yet here I am, sitting at a kitchen table and working with Henry on the portrait of June, while Fred is making a stew."
P. 92: "But why am I not satisfied with my achievements then? Because, originally, what I truly wanted was a life of pleasure, luxury, travel, adulation, adventures."
Word.
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