Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Where are we, then, if not for paradise? he asked. Do you believe that the deity is able to create a place that is not paradise? Do you believe the Fall is something ther than not realizing that we are in paradise?
Words are symbols that posit a shared memory. The historian now I want is mine alone; who shared it died. The mystics invoke a rose, a kiss, a bird that is all birds, a sun that is all the stars and the sun, a jug of wine, a garden or sex. None of these metaphors helps me to that long night of joy, he left us, tired and happy, on the edge of dawn. Hardly we speak, while the wheels and hooves resounded on the stones.
Your unforgivable sins do not allow you to see my splendor
Vague tremulous pink that you see with your eyes closed.
We can suspect that there is no universe in the organic, unifying sense, that this ambitious term has. If there is a universe, its aim is not conjectured yet; we have not yet conjectured the words, the definitions, the etymologies, the synonyms, from the secret dictionary of God.
Well, here are Homer, Plato and here are other illustrious men. Dante sees but two people I know and who belong to the contemporary world of Paolo and Francesca. He knows how they died two adulterers. Calling them and they come soon. Dante says, 'Quali colombe Disio Chiam dal'. We are in front of two sinners, and compare them with Dante 'two doves called by desire'. That's because sensuality must be also center stage. Francesca then approached him, one who speaks (Paolo can not speak) and thanked him because he called and says these pathetic words: 'It fosse il re de l'amico November Universo's preghiremmo from tua peace' , 'King of the Universe If we would have a friend I pray for your peace', adding: 'our sins since you do not inspire pity'. Then, she recounts the history and telling twice. First it says in a reserved manner, but insists that it continues to be love of Paolo. Continue to be in love with Paolo, because the feeling of repentance is impossible in Hell. Repentance is stopped in Hell, so knowing that sinned, it continues to be faithful or sin, and this gives a heroic grandeur. It would have been horrible, for instance, if you would have complained if they had repented, if you would have complained about what happened. But she accept this punishment, knowing that the penalty was right and continue to love Paolo.
When an individual creates something, say, a musical composition, a novel, a painting, a film, a video, that individual becomes an author, that is, someone who is able to leave marks, traces of your create own way messages in a process with signs which read. The author is one that interferes in particular and personal way in a process of signs.
Which one of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?
Words, displaced and mutilated words, words of others, were the poor pittance left him by the hours and the centuries.
You're in love when he realizes that another person is unique.
Misery requires paradises lost.
My name is someone & anyone. I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.
Of all the books I have delivered to the presses, none, I think, is as personal as the straggling collection mustered for this hodgepodge, precisely because it abounds in reflections and interpolations. Few things have happened to me, and I have read a great many. Or rather, few things have happened to me more worth remembering than Schopenhauer's thought or the music of England's words.
One day or one night?between my days and nights, what difference can there be??I dreamed that there was a grain of sand on the floor of my cell. Unconcerned, I went back to sleep; I dreamed that I woke up and there were two grains of sand. Again I slept; I dreamed that now there were three. Thus the grains of sand multiplied, little by little, until they filled the cell and I was dying beneath that hemisphere of sand. I realized that I was dreaming; with a vast effort I woke myself. But waking up was useless?I was suffocated by the countless sand. Someone said to me: You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of the grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened. I felt lost. The sand crushed my mouth, but I cried out: I cannot be killed by sand that I dream ?nor is there any such thing as a dream within a dream.
Others died, but it happened in the past, the season (as all men know) most favorable for death. Is it possible that I, subject of Yaqub Almansur, must die as roses had to die and Aristotle?
Poetry remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art.
Sleep, as is known, is the most secret of our actions. We spend a third of our lives and we do not understand. For some it is nothing but the eclipse of our waking; for others, a more complex state, covering a time yesterday, now and tomorrow; for others, an unbroken series of dreams.
Taught by centuries of living, the republic of immortal men had achieved a perfection of tolerance, almost of disdain. They knew that over an infinitely long span of time, all things happen to all men. As reward for his past and future virtues, every man merited every kindness?yet also every betrayal, as reward for his past and future iniquities.
The belief in Islamic cell... Zahir Zahir is Arabic, means notorious, visible; in this sense, it is one of the ninety-nine names of God; the plebs, in Muslim lands, says it beings or things that have the terrible power to be unforgettable , and whose image eventually drives people mad.
The earth we inhabit is an error, an incompetent parody. Mirrors and paternity are abominable because they multiply and affirm it.
The flattery of posterity is not worth much more than contemporary flattery, which is worth nothing.
The judge as eternal as water and air as
The morning sun shone over the bronze blade. There were no more traces of blood left. Would you believe it Ariadne? said Theseus The Minotaur almost didn't defended himself.
The story was incredible, indeed, but beat everyone because substantially it was true. True was the tone of Emma Zunz, true self modesty, I truly hate. True also was the outrage she had suffered; only the circumstances were false, the time and one or two names.
The verb to read, as the word love and the word dream, does not support the imperative mood. I always advise my students that if a book annoys leave you; not read it because it is famous, do not read it because it is modern, not read it because it's a classic. The reading should be one of the ways of happiness and you cannot force anyone to be happy.