Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Soccer is popular because stupidity is popular.
That history should have imitated history was already sufficiently marvellous; that history should imitate literature is inconceivable....
The central problem of novel-writing is causality.
The event took place in the month of February of 1969, to the north of Boston, in Cambridge. I didn't write it down right away because my first intention was to forget it, so as not to lose my mind.
The geometry of Tl”n comprises two somewhat different disciplines: the visual and the tactile. The latter corresponds to our own geometry and is subordinated to the first.
The lower order is a mirror of higher order; the land forms correspond to the ways of heaven; stains the skin are a map of the incorruptible constellations; Judas in some way reflects Jesus.
The past is the substance that time is made; why is it then becomes past.
The task of art is to transform what is continuously happening to us, to transform all of these things into symbols, into music, into something which can last in man?s memory. That is our duty. If we don?t fulfill it, we feel unhappy.
The word happiness exists in every language; it is plausible the thing itself exists.
There are people who barely feel poetry, and they are generally dedicated to teaching it.
There is no greater comfort than the idea that we have chosen our own misfortunes.
Things are duplicated in Tl”n; also they tend to fade and lose their details when people forget. Classic example is a threshold that lasted while visiting a beggar and lost sight of his death. At times some birds, a horse have saved the ruins of an amphitheater.
Three hundred nights like three hundred walls must rise between my love and me and the sea will be a black art between us. Time with a hard hand will tear out the streets tangled in my breast. Nothing will be left but memories. (O afternoons earned with suffering, nights hoping for the sight of you, dejected vacant lots, poor sky shamed in the bottom of the puddles like a fallen angel? And your life that graces my desire and that run-down and lighthearted neighborhood shining today in the glow of my love? ) Final as a statue your absence will sadden other fields.
To be immortal is commonplace; except for man, all creatures are immortal, for they are ignorant of death; what is divine, terrible, incomprehensible, is to know that one is immortal.
Toward dawn, he dreamed that he was in hiding, in one of the naves of the Clementine Library. What are you looking for? a librarian wearing dark glasses asked him. I'm looking for God, Hladik replied. God, the librarian said, is in one of the letters on one of the pages of one of the four hundred thousand volumes in the Clementine. My parents and my parents' parents searched for that letter; I myself have gone blind searching for it.
My company is not difficult, essentially. I would suffice to be immortal to carry it out Pierre Menard.
No one can read two thousand books. In the four centuries that I will not live past a half dozen. Besides not mind reading but rereading. Printing, now abolished, has been one of the worst evils of man, as it tended to multiply unnecessary texts to vertigo.
On a leopard lived in the third century, in recent years, a few planks to the twilight of the evening from the dawn of the morning, a few bars, ever-changing male and female faces, a wall and maybe stone filled with dry leaves and saw a trough. Love and predation, hunting the fragmentation of the blazing pleasure, she did not know which deer scent miss the wind, he could not. Still, he choked on something inside, he rebelled against something and God said in her dream: One of my servant you can see this much time, and you use you universe scheme in place as an image and symbol in a defined poetry he will survive this prison, and you will die. Now you're trapped, but you will have to add a word of poetry.
One of the heresiarchs of Uqbar had stated that mirrors and copulation are abominable, since they both multiply the numbers of man.
Over time you learn to be with someone that gives you a good future, means that sooner or later want to return to your past. With time you understand that only who is able to love with your faults, without trying to change, it can give you all the happiness what do you want. Over time you realize that if you're next to that person only to accompany your loneliness, inevitably end up not wanting to see her again. With time you understand that true friends are counted, and those who will not fight for them sooner or later will be surrounded only by false friendships. With time you learn that words said in a moment of anger can still hurting who hurt, lifelong. Over time you learn to forgive anyone does, but forgiveness is only great souls. Eventually you realize that if you hurt a friend sharply, most likely the friendship will never be the same again. Eventually you realize that although you are happy with your friends, someday cry for those! you let go. Eventually you realize that every experience with each person is unique.
Razed the garden, profaned the chalices and altars, came riding Huns in the monastic library and broke the incomprehensible books and reviled and burned, perhaps fearful that the letters were covers blaspheme his god, that was a scimitar iron.
Solitude weighs me down. Company does too.
That imminence of a revelation that is not yet produced, is perhaps the aesthetic reality.
The certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal.
The exchange of thoughts is a condition necessary for all love, all friendship and all real dialogue. Two men who can speak together can enrich and broaden themselves indefinitely.