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 made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America.

They can cut all the flowers, but they can't stop the spring.

We - then - we are not the same.

When we are far from home we never remember their winters. The distance erases the pains of winter, homeless populations, barefoot children in the cold. The art of memory only brings green fields, yellow and red flowers, blue sky of the national anthem.

With your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.

You pervade everything, you, pervade everything.

They started life dreams and stop me, leave your question on my eyelashes.

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish under the net of our kisses.

Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.

You start dying slowly... If you do not travel, you have not read the book, if you do not listen to the sounds of life, if you do not appreciate yourself, slowly start dying. Killed while confidence in yourself, when you let others help you. they start dying slowly if you're a slave of your habits, you will always go the same way, if you do not change your routines, if you do not wear different colors, or if you do not talk to strangers, slowly you start dying. , if the passion, the feeling rebellious, and the things that make your eyes shine Vamydarnd, and your heart beats faster, they 're far away... slowly start dying. Though when your job or ur not happy, change it unless you know for sure you do not risk the uncertain, beyond the dreams not go after you, you do not allow yourself, at least once in your life... go beyond the expedient today to start living now! 's risk Now! 's working now! Let it slowly die! Happiness does not forget!

This flesh and the other will be consumed, the flower will doubtless perish without residue, when death--sterile dawn, desiccated dust-- comes one day into the girdle of the haughty island, and you, statue, laughter of man, will remain gazing with the empty eyes that rose up through one and another hand of the absent immortals.

We continued till we came to a natural tunnel which perhaps had been bored through the imposing rocks by some mighty vanished river or created by some tremor of the earth when these heights had been formed, a channel that we entered where it had been carved out in the rock in granite. After only a few steps our horses began to slip when they sought for a foothold in the uneven surfaces of the stone and their legs were bent, sparks flying from beneath their iron shoes - several times I expected to find myself thrown off and lying there on the rock. My horse was bleeding from its muzzle and from its legs, but we persevered and continued on the long and difficult but magnificent path.

Where is the child I was, still inside me or gone? Know that not ever wanted And that did not want me? Do we ride so long we grew apart? Do not we die too when my child died? And if the soul fell me why I keep the skeleton?

Woman, I would Have Been your child, to drink the milk of your breasts as from a well, to see and feel you at my side and have you in your laughter and your gold crystal voice. To feel you in my veins like God in the rivers and adore you in the sorrowful bones of dust and lime, to watch you passing painlessly by to emerge in the stanza-cleansed of all evil. How I would love you woman, how I would love you, love you as no one ever did and still die. Love you more and still love you more and more.

You swallowed everything, like distance, like the sea, like time ... That was my destiny and I travel in my longing, and in my desire, in you everything sank!

This is as long as the person? Thousand years or one? Lives in a week or a few centuries? Dies how long? What is the meaning of eternity?

We had to cross a river. Up on the Andean summits there run small streams which cast themselves down with dizzy and insane force, forming waterfalls that stir up earth and stones with the violence they bring with them from the heights. But this time we found calm water, a wide mirrorlike expanse which could be forded. The horses splashed in, lost their foothold and began to swim towards the other bank. Soon my horse was almost completely covered by the water, I began to plunge up and down without support, my feet fighting desperately while the horse struggled to keep its head above water. Then we got across. And hardly we reached the further bank when the seasoned country folk with me asked me with scarce-concealed smiles:

Where things go sleep? They are the dream of others?

Wondering why his poetry speaks of dreams not of the leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets!

You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.

This is what I am, I'll say, to leave this written excuse. This is my life. Now it is clear this couldn't be done- that in this net it's not just the strings that count but the air that escapes through the meshes. Everything else stayed out of reach- time running like a hare across the February dew, and love, best not to talk of love which moved, a swaying of hips, leaving no more trace of all its fire than a spoonful of ash. That's how it is with so many passing things: the man who waited, believing, of course, the woman who was alive and will not be. All of them believed that, having teeth, feet, hands, and language, life was only a matter of honor. This one took a look at history, took in all the victories of the past, assumed an everlasting existence, and the only thing life gave him was his death, time not to be alive, and earth to bury him in the end. But all that was born with as many eyes as there are planets in the firmament, and all her devouring fire ruthlessly devoured her until the end. If I remember anything in my life, it was an afternoon in India, on the banks of a river. They were burning a woman of flesh and bone and I didn't know if what came from the sarcophagus was soul or smoke, until there was neither woman nor fire nor coffin nor ash. It was late, and only the night, the water, the river, the darkness lived on in that death.

We have inherited this damaged life of peoples dragging behind them the burden of the condemnation of centuries, the most paradisiacal of peoples, the purest, those who with stones and metals made marvelous towers, jewels of dazzling brilliance - peoples who were suddenly despoiled and silenced in the fearful epochs of colonialism which still linger on.

Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

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