Pablo Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

Pablo
Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
1904
1973

Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature

Author Quotes

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

There is something sad in the world that a stationary train in the rain?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write for example, "The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance." The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one, I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. Thought this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

What's wrong with you, with us, what's happening to us? Ah our love is a harsh cord that binds us wounding us and if we want to leave our wound, to separate, it makes a new knot for us and condemns us to drain our blood and burn together. What's wrong with you? I look at you and I find nothing in you but two eyes like all eyes, a mouth lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful, a body just like those that have slipped beneath my body without leaving any memory. And how empty you went through the world like a wheat-colored jar without air, without sound, without substance! I vainly sought in you depth for my arms that dig, without cease, beneath the earth: beneath your skin, beneath your eyes, nothing, beneath your double breast scarcely raised a current of crystalline order that does not know why it flows singing. Why, why, why, my love, why?

Why do the leaves commit suicide when they feel yellow?

You keep only darkness, my distant female, from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

There was something awaiting us in the midst of this wild primeval forest. Suddenly, as if in a strange vision, we came to a beautiful little meadow huddled among the rocks: clear water, green grass, wild flowers, the purling of brooks and the blue heaven above, a generous stream of light unimpeded by leaves.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

What's wrong with you? I look at you and I find nothing in you but two eyes like all eyes, a mouth lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful, a body just like those that have slipped beneath my body without leaving any memory.

Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain?

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

Under your ski the moon is alive.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keeps hidden takes over all that I say.

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

You know that nobody streets and into the houses either? There are only eyes in the windows. If you do not have to sleep touching a door will open, you open up to a point and you'll see that it's cold inside, that the house is empty, and wants nothing to you, are worthless your stories, and if you insist with your tenderness you bite the dog and cat.

There we stopped as if within a magic circle, as if guests within some hallowed place, and the ceremony I now took part in had still more the air of something sacred. The cowherds dismounted from their horses. In the midst of the space, set up as if in a rite, was the skull of an ox. In silence the men approached it one after the other and put coins and food in the eye-sockets of the skull. I joined them in this sacrifice intended for stray travelers, all kinds of refugees who would find bread and succor in the dead ox's eye sockets.

Uprooting for the human being is a frustration that, in one way or another, atrophy clarity of his soul.

When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born.

You know the streets and no one in either house? Just eyes on the windows. If you do not have to sleep and touches a door will open, you open up to a point and you'll see that it's cold inside, that the house is empty, and wants nothing to you, your stories are worth nothing, and if you insist with your tenderness bite you the dog and cat.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Walking around happen to get tired of being a man. Happens that I walk into theaters tailors and withered, impenetrable, like a felt swan navigating on a water of origin and ash. Pelquer¡as the smell of it makes me mourn loudly. I just want a break from stones or wool, I just do not want to see establishments or gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators. Happens I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. Happens that I get tired of being man. However would be delicious to scare a notary with a lily cut or kill joins nun with a blow on the ear. Would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of cold. Do not want to remain rooted in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day. do not want so much misery. Do not want to continue to root and a tomb, alone under the ground, cellar with dead numb, dying of grief. 's why Monday burns like oil when it sees me coming with my convict face, and howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and take steps towards evening hot blood. Y pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, a certain shoe smelling vinegar, streets hideous as cracks. There are sulfur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of the houses that I hate, no teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I walk calmly, with eyes, with shoes, with fury, with forgetfulness, step through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with clothes hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts which weep. Slow dirty tears.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

With which stars do they go on speaking, the rivers that never reach the sea?

Author Picture
First Name
Pablo
Last Name
Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Birth Date
1904
Death Date
1973
Bio

Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature