A Quote by Anais Nin

Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love. — © Anais Nin
Travel is seeking the lost paradise. It is the supreme illusion of love.
Santa Barbara is a paradise; Disneyland is a paradise; the U.S. is a paradise. Paradise is just paradise. Mournful, monotonous, and superficial though it may be, it is paradise. There is no other.
It is commonly asserted and accepted that Paradise Lost is among the two or three greatest English poems; it may justly be taken as the type of supreme poetic achievement in our literature.
Nirvana is a word that means enlightenment, being beyond the illusion of birth and death, the illusion of pain, the illusion of love, the illusion of time and life.
Travel writing is harrowing. You are in paradise, more or less, having to prove it is paradise. It is hard to have a good time trying to figure out a way to say you are having a good time, whether you are having it or not, even in paradise.
I would say my theme has always been paradise lost, always the lost cause, the lost leader, the lost utopia.
Any love is a home-sickness, a longing for a lost paradise.
All the way out I listen to the car AM radio, bad lyrics of trailer park love, gin and tonic love, strobe light love, lost and found love, lost and found and lost love, lost and lost and lost love—some people were having no luck at all. The DJ sounds quick and smooth and after-shaved, the rest of the world a mess by comparison.
Ah, love. That’s what the world has lost. There’s no more love, only the illusion of it.
The only paradise is paradise lost.
It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it.
Like Adam, we have all lost Paradise; and yet we carry Paradise around inside of us in the form of a longing for, almost a memory of, a blessedness that is no more, or the dream of a blessedness that may someday be again.
We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost.
As in paradise, God walks in the Holy Scriptures, seeking man.
Where the Old Masters created an illusion of space into which one could imagine walking, the illusion created by a Modernist is one into which one can look, can travel through, only with the eye.
Time is only an illusion produced by the succession of our states of consciousness as we travel through eternal duration, and it does not exist where no consciousness exists in which the illusion can be produced; but "lies asleep."
I was seeking a real love, a real deal, and I have been seeking it for a lot of years. And in that seeking, I found that God's love is real
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