Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?
When people write in favor or against anybody, that hardly helps or hurts them...man can be done or undone by his own writing, not by what other people say of him.
Why do you seem so annoyed at what I'm saying?" "Because we're too much like each other. I loathe your face, which is a caricature of mine, I loathe your voice, which is a mockery of mine, I loathe your pathetic syntax, which is my own.
You can't measure time by days, the way you measure money by dollars and cents, because dollars are all the same while every day is different and maybe every hour as well.
We all think that fate has dealt us a wretched sort of lot in life, and that others must be better? I presume that in the heaven of the BlessŠd there are those who believe that the advantages of that locale are much exaggerated by theologists, who have never been there themselves.
We know the past, present and future are already, by minutiae, in the prophetic mind of God, in His eternity; the strange thing is that men can look indefinitely backward but not forward.
What one man does is something done, in some measure, by all men. For that reason a disobedience committed in a garden contaminates the human race; for that reason it is not unjust that the crucifixion of a single Jew suffices to safe it. Perhaps Schopenhauer is right: I am all others, any men is all men, Shakespeare is in some way the wretched John Vincent Moon.
When the clocks of midnight squander a generous time, I will go further than Ulysses? oarsmen to the realm of dreams, inaccessible to human nature. From that underwater region, I rescue fragments that I do not begin to understand.
Wilde was not a great poet nor a consummate prose writer. He was a very astute Irishman who encompassed in epigrams an esthetic credo which others before him scattered in the space of long pages. He was an enfant terrible.
You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened.
We are as ignorant of the meaning of the dragon as we are of the meaning of the universe.
We must be careful when choosing enemies because one ends up looking like them.
What they are at the end of words? Words are symbols of our shared memories. When I use a word, I expect that readers have some experience associated with its meaning.
When we read verses really extraordinary, really good, we tend to do it out loud. Good to not let read quietly or silently. If we succeed, it is not an effective way: the verse demands to be declaimed. The verse does not forget that he was an art oral art before being written, do not forget that he was singing.
Will it die? Everything that dies has had some kind of goal, some kind of work that hath laid the sulfur
You learn. After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul, and you learn that love doesn?t mean leaning and company doesn?t mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren?t contracts and presents aren?t promises, and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child, and you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow?s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn? that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure? that you really are strong and you really do have worth? and you learn and learn? with every good-bye you learn.
We are ignorant of the meaning of the dragon in the same way that we are ignorant of the meaning of the universe; but there is something in the dragon?s image that fits man?s imagination, and this accounts for the dragon?s appearance in different places and periods.
We must not be too prodigal with our angels; they are the last divinities we harbor, and they might fly away.
What type of sentence (I asked myself) will an absolute mind construct? I considered that even in human languages there is no proposition that does not imply the whole universe? I considered that in the language of a god every word would enunciate that infinite concatenation of facts, and not in an implicit but explicit manner, and not progressively but instantaneously? A god, I reflected, ought to utter only a single word and in that word absolute fullness. No word uttered by him can be inferior to the universe or less than the sum total of time. Shadows or simulacra of that single word equivalent to a language and to all language can embrace are the poor and ambitious human words, all, world, universe.
When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.
With another voice said the war served as women, for men q proven, and that before going into battle, no one knew who he is.
You think the fall is nothing but ignore that we are in Paradise?
We are like the wizard who weaves a labyrinth and is forced to wander through it till the end of his days
We publish not to go through life correcting drafts. I mean, we publish a book to get rid of him.
What we have is our own memory, we are that deceptive Museum variable forms, that pile of broken mirror