Octavio Paz, born Octavio Paz Lozano

Octavio
Paz, born Octavio Paz Lozano
1914
1998

Mexican Writer, Poet, Diplomat and Winner of Nobel Prize for Literature

Author Quotes

Deserve what you dream.

I don't believe that there are dangerous writers: the danger of certain books is not in the books themselves but in the passions of their readers.

Love is born with an arrow; Friendship frequent and prolonged exchange.

Persistent, flowing through fallen shadows, excavating tunnels, drilling silences, Insisting, running under my pillow, brushing past my temples, covering my eyelids with another, intangible skin made ??of air, its wandering nations, its drowsy tribes migrate through the provinces of my body, it crosses, re-crosses under the bridges of my bones, slips into my left ear, spills out from my right, climbs the nape of my neck, turns and turns in my skull, wanders across the terrace of my forehead, conjures visions, scatters them, erases my thoughts one by one with hands of unwetting water, it evaporates them, black emerges tide of pulse-beats, groping forward murmur of water repeating the same meaningless syllable, I hear its sleepwalking delirium losing itself in serpentine galleries of echoes, it comes back, drifts off, eat back, flings itself endlessly off the edges of my cliffs, and I do not stop falling and I fall.

Tell me how you die and I'll tell you who you are.

The rebel, unlike the revolutionary, does not attempt to undermine the social order as a whole. The rebel attacks the tyrant; the revolutionary attacks tyranny. I grant that there are rebels who regard all governments as tyrannical; nonetheless, it is abuses that they condemn, not power itself. Revolutionaries, on the other hand, are convinced that the evil does not lie in the excesses of the constituted order but in order itself. The difference, it seems to me, is considerable.

Two bodies face to face.

Distrust, dissimulation, polite reserve that shuts off the strange irony, all, in short, the psychological swings that by avoiding the gaze of others shirk we ourselves are traits dominated people, who fears and Mr. pretending front. It is revealing that our intimacy never bring out naturally without the spur of the party, alcohol or death... To leave himself the servant needs to jump barriers, drunk, forget their condition. Living alone, without witnesses. Only in solitude dare to be.

I remember my loves, my conversation, my friendships. I remember it all, see it all, see them all. With melancholy, but without nostalgia. And above all, without hope. I know that it is immortal, and that, if we are anything, we are the hope of something. For me, expectation has spent itself. I quit the nevertheless, the even, the in spite of everything, the moratoriums, the excuses and forgiving. I know the mechanism of the trap of morality and the drowsiness of certain words. I have lost faith in all those constructions of stone, ideas, ciphers. I quit. I no longer defend this broken tower. And, in silence, I await the event.

Love is intensity and this is a relaxation time. Stretches and lengthens the minutes as ever.

Poetry cannot be explained - only to understand.

That I thought the world was a vast system of signs, a Conversation Between giant beings. My actions, the cricket's saw, the star's blink, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases from That dialogue. What word could it be, of which I was only a syllable? Who speaks the word? To whom is it spoken?

The religion of art, like the religion of politics, was born from the ruins of Christianity. Art inherited from the old religion the power of consecrating things and endowing them with a sort of eternity; museums are our temples, and the objects displayed in them are beyond history. Politics?or more precisely, Revolution?co-opted the other function of religion: changing human beings and society. Art was an asceticism, a spiritual heroism; Revolution was the construction of a universal church.

Watching I watch myself what I see is my creation as though entering through my eyes perception is conception into an eye more crystal clear water of thoughts what I watch watches me I am the creation of what I see

Drugs are nihilistic: they undermine all values and radically overturn all our ideas about good and evil, what is just and what is unjust, what is permitted and what is forbidden.

I too await the coming of my hour, I too exist. No. I quit.

Love is one of the answers humankind invented to stare death in the face: time ceases to be a measure, and we can briefly know paradise.

Prose is a tardy genre, offspring of thought's distrust of the natural tendencies of language. Poetry belongs to all epochs: it is man's natural form of expression. There are no peoples without poetry; there are some without prose. Therefore, it can be said that prose is not a form of expression inherent in society, while the existence of a society without songs, myths, or other poetic expressions is inconceivable. Poetry knows nothing of progress or evolution, and its beginnings and its end are confused with those of language. Prose, which is primordially a tool of criticism and analysis, requires a slow maturation and is only produced after a long series of efforts aimed at taming speech.

The American: a titan enamored of progress, a fanatical giant who worships "getting things done" but never asks himself what he is doing nor why he is doing it.

The second way out is through love: complacency and acceptance .. freely beloved person. Is it madness or illusion? Maybe, but the only door to get out of jail jealousy. I wrote many years ago: the virtue of love without sacrifice, and today I say: Love foolish bet for freedom, does not own my freedom, but the freedom of others.

We love to silence the poet has one salvation - it.

Each poem is unique. In each work late, with greater or lesser extent, all poetry. Each reader looking for something in the poem. And it is not unusual to find it: You already carrying.

I went to the little window and inhaled the country air. One could hear the breathing of the night, feminine, enormous.

Love is the revelation of the other person's freedom.

Quite from the main opinion he held once

Author Picture
First Name
Octavio
Last Name
Paz, born Octavio Paz Lozano
Birth Date
1914
Death Date
1998
Bio

Mexican Writer, Poet, Diplomat and Winner of Nobel Prize for Literature