Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
When you come right down to it, opinions are the most superficial things about anyone
With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he also was an illusion, that someone else was dreaming.
You want to see what human eyes have not seen? Look at the moon. You want to hear what the ears do not hear? Hears the cry of the bird. Do you want to touch what no hands touched? Touches the ground. Truly I say God is to create the world
Unlike Newton and Schopenhauer, your ancestor did not acretitava a uniform time, absolute. He believed in infinite series of times, in a growing and vertiginous network of times to come, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each secularly, covers all the possibilities. We do not exist in most of these times; in some there is you and not me. In others, I, not the Lord; in others the two. In this, a favorable chance surprises me, you come to me; in another, he, crossing the garden, found me dead; in another, I say these same words, but I am a mistake, a ghost.
We are made for art, we are made for memory, for poetry or perhaps to oblivion. But something remains and that something is the story or poetry, which are not essentially different.
We see the great poets of antiquity - among them Homer, sword in hand - poets Dante change with words that can not be reproduced. But silence reigns here, because everything is dominated by terrible shame those who will never see the face of God. But once we reach the fifth edge, we see that Dante had already made his great discovery: the possibility of a dialogue with the souls of the dead, which then will judge in their own way. No, not judge; He knows it is not a judge; Judge is another; is the third interlocutor, is divine.
What we say seldom seems to us.
When you reach my age, you realize you couldn't have done things very much better or much worse than you did them in the first place.
With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another.
You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?
Mirrors and copulation are abominable, since they both multiply the numbers of men.
My memory carries me back to a certain evening some sixty years ago, to my father?s library in Buenos Aires. I see him; I see the gaslight; I could place my hand on the shelves. I know exactly where to find Burton?s Arabian Nights and Prescott?s Conquest of Peru, though the library exists no longer.
Novels include padding; I think padding may be an essential part of the novel, for all I know.
Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite.
Only in the present do things happen.
Perhaps universal history is the history of the diverse intonation of some metaphors.
Rumors of the square left behind and entered the library. In an almost physical way I feel the gravity of the books, the serene area of an order, the desiccated time and magically preserved. To the left and right, absorbed in his lucid dream, the momentary faces of readers are foreseen, in the light of the studious lamps, as in Milton hypallage. I remember already recalled that figure, in this place, and after that other epithet that also defines the outline, the arid camel Lunario, then that hexameter from the Aeneid, which manages and overcomes the same artifice: These reflections let me in the door of his office. I enter; conventional and change a few kind words and I give this book. If I am not mistaken, you do not malquer¡a me, Lugones, and would have liked he liked any of my work. This never happened, but this time you turn the pages and read approvingly a verse, perhaps because he has recognized his own voice, perhaps because the poor practice cares unless the sound theory. At this point melts my dream, as the water in the water. The vast library that surrounds me is on Mexico Street, not on the street Rodr¡guez Pe¤a, and you, Lugones, was killed early thirty-eight. My vanity and my nostalgia have armed an impossible scene. So it will (I tell myself) but tomorrow I also have died and our times confused and chronology will be lost in an orb of symbols and somehow be fair to say that I have brought you this book and that you have accepted it .
Sometimes a few birds, a horse, have saved the ruins of an amphitheater.
The aesthetic event is something as evident, as immediate, as indefinable as love, the taste of fruit, as water. We feel poetry as we feel the closeness of a woman, or as we feel a mountain or a bay. If we feel it immediately, why dilute it further with words, which no doubt will be weaker than our feelings?
The dictionary is based on the hypothesis -- obviously an unproven one -- that languages are made up of equivalent synonyms.
The fact is that I am unique. I do not care what a man can communicate to other people, as well as the philosopher I think that the art of writing nothing can be transferred. For boring and free trinkets have no place in my spirit, which is destined for great things.
The history of the universe... is the handwriting produced by a minor god in order to communicate with a demon.
The mightiest love was granted him
The secret eternal laws, the harmony of the world - all of them or their remembrance, located here amid the books that I keep in this tower.
The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings.