In this entry of volume two of her diary, Anais Nin is back in Louveciennes after a five-month stay in New York. She notices her old home, which she used to love, rotting away and the walls crumbling around it. It's too quiet, too peaceful, too monotonous, too repetitious, and she doesn't feel like she fits in there anymore; she is restless. She has changed, but nothing around her has changed. She misses the activity, adventure, motion of New York, even if all this activity was meaningless, at least it was new; it wasn't all this sameness she sees around her now.
Anais wants her life to have meaning, and she knows that only she can give it meaning. She says that each individual's life has its own meaning, not the same meaning for all people. She says it's like each person having his own novel about his life. And what gives meaning to Anais' life? Not politics, class, or possessions. She says she makes herself responsible for the fate of every person who comes her way by treating them as human beings and being respectful towards them. She believes if all of us acted this way in unison, there would be no more wars or poverty. I think she's on to something.
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