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

Being yourself is always to become that other than we are and that we have hidden within us, mostly as a promise or possibility of being.

EVERYONE, at some point, it has been revealed to us our existence as something particular transferable and beautiful. Almost always this revelation is in adolescence. The discovery of ourselves manifests as knowing ourselves alone; between the world and opens us an impalpable, transparent wall, that of our consciousness.

In the ebb and flow of our passions and occupations (always cleaved, and I always double and double the other me), there is a moment when everything compact. Opposites do not disappear but are melted for a moment. It is like a suspension mood: time is not heavy. The Upanishads teach that this reconciliation is ananda or delight in the One True, few are able to achieve such status. But all, ever, and has been for a split second, have glimpsed something similar. One need not be a mystic to brush this certainty. We were all children. We all loved. Love is a state of assembly and participation, open to men in lovemaking consciousness is like the wave that defeated the obstacle, before collapsing, stands in a fullness in which everything - form and movement, momentum upward and gravity - reaches an equilibrium without support, based on himself. Stillness of movement. And in the same way through a beloved body glimpse a fuller life, more life than life, glimpsed through the fixed beam poem poetry. This moment contains all moments. Still flowing, time stops, full of itself. Bow And The Lyre

Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the mazes of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason.

Return earthly life passed before the half, I stopped. He turned his back to the future: There is not waiting for me - and already passed by went. I went out of the number of those who from time immemorial, deceived, expects that the winning fortune, turn the key, the truth is revealed - will open the gates of the century, and someone said: There is no gate and no centuries. I leave behind the streets and squares, and Greek statues - in the cold light of morning, and the wind was living among the tombs. Outside the city - the field and in the fields - and night desert: then my lonely heart - and the desert night. And in the light of the sun, I became stone, mirror and stone. then - left behind the desert - was the sea and over the sea - black sky, a huge stone with Barely words: No stars in me . So - come. Gates are destroyed, and the angel slumbers peacefully. And outside the gates - Garden: thick crown breathing stones, almost alive, magnolia deep sleep, and light - naked among the trunks elegant. Water flows hands-hugging blooming meadow. And in the center - a tree and a girl -child; oh, sunny fire her hair! And nudity is not burdened me: I was in the water and the air is like. Nestled glow green tree, asleep in the grass, it was - left wind white feather. Kissed her I wanted, but the gurgling water suddenly awakened thirst, I leaned over the water mirror and looked at myself. And I saw, mouth distorted thirst, was dead; oh elder hungry for, vine, the agony of fire! I covered her nakedness. And quietly left. Laughed angel. And the wind picked up, and my eyes fell asleep wind sand. Sand and wind - that my words, do not we live, we live creates time.

The image that Mexico offers the late nineteenth century is that of discord. A deeper political discord complaint or civil war, because it consisted of overlapping legal and cultural forms that not only expressing our reality, but the choking and immobilized... Cut ties with the past, impossible to dialogue with the United States-we only spoke the language of force or business-useless relations with the peoples of Spanish language, locked in dead forms. We were reduced to a unilateral imitation of France, which always ignored us. What was it? Choking and loneliness.

There can be no society without poetry, but society can never be realized as poetry, it is never poetic. Sometimes the two terms seek to break apart. They cannot.

When a society decays, it is first language to become that is gangrenous. As a result, social criticism begins with grammar and the re-establishing of meanings.

Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency. Circular The afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks. All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can not be touched. Paper, book , pencil, glass, rest in the shade of Their names. Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood. The light turns the indifferent wall into a ghostly theater of reflections. I find myself in the middle of an eye, watching myself in its blank stare. The moment scatters. Motionless, I stay and go: pause I am.

Everything is language.

In the face of the modern crisis, both poets turn their eyes to the past and actualize history: every epoch is this epoch. But Eliot actually desires to return and reinstall Christ; Pound uses the past as another form of the future. Having lost the center of his world, he throws himself into every adventure. Unlike Eliot, he is a reactionary, not a conservative. In fact, Pound has never ceased to be a North American and he is the legitimate descendent of Whitman, this is, he is a son of utopia.... Pound's erudition is a banquet after an expedition of conquest; Eliot's, the search for a standard that will give meaning to history, stability to movement. Pound accumulates quotations with the heroic air of one who robs graves; Eliot orders them as if he were hauling in the relics of a shipwreck. Pound's work is a journey that perhaps leads us nowhere; Eliot's, a search for the ancestral home.

My body, your body plowed by, will turn into a field where one is sown and reaped a hundred.

Revolt is the violence of an entire people; rebellion the unruliness of an individual or an uprising by a minority; both are spontaneous and blind. Revolution is both planned and spontaneous, a science and an art.

The most dangerous human masses are those in whose veins have been injected the poison of fear .... fear of change.

There is no doubt that today reads more than before. Does it read better? I doubt it. Distraction is our usual state. No distraction that moves away from the world to get into the secret of his country and moving fantasy, but of one who is always beside himself, lost in the daily average and senseless agitation. A thousand things at once asking for our attention and none of them manages to keep us; life becomes so we sand between your toes and hours smoke in the brain.

When we learn to speak, we learn to translate.

Between the language, be social by nature, and the writer who breeds only in solitude, thus provides a very strange relationship: thanks to the writer amorphous horizontal stands and individualized language; through language, the modern writer, the other broken lines of communication with his people and his time, participates in the life of the City.

Facing the little be the man with the full being of God, religion posits an eternal life. So redeems us from death, but makes terrestrial life-long punishment and atonement for the original sin. By killing death, religion completely devoted to life. Eternity uninhabited instantly. Because life and death are inseparable. Death is present in life: live dying. And every minute we die, we live. When you take away the dying, religion takes life. On behalf of eternal life, religion says the death of this life. Arco and the lyre

In writing history I mean the general or universal. There is no other. Things called national history is the mirror of man-and-so is universal or an anecdote desktop

My hands open the curtains of your being clothe you in a further nudity uncover the bodies of your body My hands invent another body for your body.

Self-discovery is above all the realization that we are alone.

The North American system only wants to consider the positive aspects of reality. Men and women are subjected from childhood to an inexorable process of adaptation; certain principles, contained in brief formulas are endlessly repeated by the Press, the radio, the churches, and the schools, and by those kindly, sinister beings, the North American mothers and wives. A person imprisoned by these schemes is like a plant in a flowerpot too small for it: he cannot grow or mature.

To fight evil is to fight ourselves.

Why today people say so easily yes? Loneliness ... They fear the loneliness of no! You know it is very easy to fall into the river and, without doing anything, let yourself be seduced by the Stream! 's very hard to resist. Therefore honor dissidents wherever they are. Whoever says no is a dissident! In a society accommodated to agree, one who disagrees with diversity brighten the dull uniformity? If you want, This was the death of the artist in our time ... The artists stopped resisting ... ceased to be trans no of their time. 'Thus they became commodities sold off the shelf consumption's art with no 'shows a world that says anything yes, what is the future. Unfortunately today the art says only yes and so I do not have contact with the future. Yes, but so is as some support, contact with the general public ... But the role of art is not to have contact with the general public... The art is light to dark and dark to light not! On the yes of the art all that succeeds is to flatter the audience! With flattery are not moving ... We stand on the same spot, we see in the mirror and admire oneself. -What do we proceed? With the continuous review! The flattery of the public is the death of art and the elimination of loneliness of the artist. To see the future, we must not be guided by the taste of the public.

Beyond myself, somewhere, I wait for my arrival.

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