Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
A writer needs loneliness, and he gets his share of it. He needs love, and he gets shared and also unshared love. He needs friendship. In fact, he needs the universe. To be a writer is, in a sense, to be a day-dreamer - to be living a kind of double life.
All our lives we postpone everything that can be postponed; perhaps we all have the certainty, deep inside, that we are immortal and sooner or later every man will do everything, know all there is to know.
A classic book is a book which generations of men, driven by various reasons, read with that same initial fervor and that same mysterious loyalty.
A writer should have another lifetime to see if he's appreciated.
All resemble the image that others have of us.
A good player is as rare as a good writer.
A writer, or any man, must believe that whatever happens to him is an instrument; everything has been given for an end. This is even stronger in the case of the artist. Everything that happens, including humiliations, embarrassments, misfortunes, all has been given like clay, like material for one's art. One must accept it.
All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.
A hundred years, human beings can do without the love and friendship. Aches and unintentional death are no longer a threat to him. This practice any art, he devoted himself to philosophy, mathematics or he plays solitaire chess. When he wants to, he kills himself. Master of his life, the man is also his death. 
A writer?and, I believe, generally all persons?must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource.
All theories are legitimate, no matter. What matters is what you do with them.
A labyrinth of symbols... An invisible labyrinth of time.
A writer's work is the product of laziness.
All writing is dreaming
A man sets himself the task of portraying the world. Shortly before he dies he discovers that this patient labyrinth of lines is a drawing of his own face.
A: Absorbed in our discussion of immortality, we had let night fall without lighting the lamp, and we couldn't see each other's faces. With an offhandedness or gentleness more convincing than passion would have been, Macedonio Fernandez' voice said once more that the soul is immortal. He assured me that the death of the body is altogether insignificant, and that dying has to be the most unimportant thing that can happen to a man. I was playing with Macedonio's pocketknife, opening and closing it. A nearby accordion was infinitely dispatching La Comparsita, that dismaying trifle that so many people like because it's been misrepresented to them as being old... I suggested to Macedonio that we kill ourselves, so we might have our discussion without all that racket. Z: (mockingly) But I suspect that at the last moment you reconsidered. A: (now deep in mysticism) Quite frankly, I don't remember whether we committed suicide that night or not.
Almost'm not, but my verses punctuate life and splendor. I was Walt Whitman.
A man sets himself the task of portraying the world. Through the years he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and people. Shortly before his death, he discovers that that patient labyrinth of lines traces the image of his face.
Ab¡a effortlessly learned English, French, Portuguese, Latin. I suspect, however, that was not very capable of thought. Thinking is forget differences, is generalize, to abstract. In the crowded world of Funes there were only details, almost immediate.
Although I'm very lazy when it comes to writing, I'm not that lazy when it comes to thinking. I like to develop the plan of a short story, then cut it as short as possible, try to evolve all the necessary details. I know far more about the characters than what actually comes out of the writing.
A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.
According to the idealistic doctrine, verbs living and dreaming are rigorously synonymous.
Among the books in my library are books that I'll never opened. This summer I'll be fifty years old... death does rob me endlessly.
A man the task of drawing the world is proposed. Over the years he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses and people. Shortly before his death, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the image of his face.
After a while you learn the subtle difference between keeping the hand and chained to a soul.