Author 237599

Jorge Luis

Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet

Author Quotes

Then there occurred what I cannot forget nor communicate. There occurred the union with the divinity, with the universe (I do not know whether these words differ in meaning). Ecstasy does not repeat its symbols; God has been seen in a blazing light, in a sword or in the circles of a rose. I saw an exceedingly high Wheel, which was not before my eyes, nor behind me, nor to the sides, but every place at one time. That wheel was made of water, but also of fire, and it was (although the edge could be seen) infinite. Interlinked, all things that are, were, and shall be formed it, and I was one of the fibers of that total fabric? I saw the universe and I saw the intimate designs of the universe? I saw the faceless god concealed behind the other gods. I saw infinite processes that formed one single felicity and, understanding all, I was able to understand the script of the tiger.

There is a Talmudic legend about three men who go in search of God. One became insane, the other died, and the third met himself.

There's no need to build a labyrinth when the entire universe is one.

This much is already known: for every sensible line of straightforward statement, there are leagues of senseless cacophonies, verbal jumbles and incoherences. (I know of an uncouth region whose librarians repudiate the vain and superstitious custom of finding a meaning in books and equate it with that of finding a meaning in dreams or in the chaotic lines of one's palm... They admit that the inventors of this writing imitated the twenty-five natural symbols, but maintain that this application is accidental and that the books signify nothing in themselves. This dictum, we shall see, is not entirely fallacious.)

Time remade what we lose, eternity saves it for the glory and for the fire.

To think, analyze and invent, he [Pierre Menard] also wrote me, ?are not anomalous acts, but the normal respiration of the intelligence. To glorify the occasional fulfillment of this function, to treasure ancient thoughts of others, to remember with incredulous amazement that the doctor universal is thought, is to confess our languor or barbarism. Every man should be capable of all ideas, and I believe that in the future he will be."

Moreover, literature is nothing but a dream run.

My taste runs to hourglasses, maps, seventeenth-century typefaces, etymologies, the taste of coffee, and the prose of Robert Louis Stevenson.

Of all the cities in the world. all intimate homelands that a man seeks to earn during his travels, Geneva seems most conducive to happiness.

One is allowed to change the past: the present is so stubborn.

Others like the books boast that they have written, my fame are the books I have read.

Poetry springs from something deeper; it's beyond intelligence.

So my life is a point-counterpoint, a kind of fugue, and a falling away?and everything winds up being lost to me, and everything falls into oblivion, or into the hands of the other man.

Tearing money is an impiety, like throwing away bread.

The book is little more than a word structure. A dialogue is initiated by its readers. This dialogue is endless, literature is inexhaustible, and this is due to the very simple reason - because each such book. The book is not a thing without communication: the ratio, the support of countless relationships.

The eldest son, the man without history, the orphan who could be dead, exhausted in vain the big house desert. (It was the two and is now in memory. It is both.) Under the tough luck Search lost painful man's voice was his voice. The miraculous not be more rare than death. The interminably harass Sacred and trivial memories. That is our destiny, these deadly vast Memories as a continent. God or perhaps or No, I ask His inexhaustible image, not forgotten.

The future has no other reality than as present hope, and the past is no more than present memory.

The language referred unduly exaggerates the facts indicate, since every word covers a place on the page and a moment in the reader's mind.

The name of a woman betrays me. A woman hurts the whole body.

The Suicide: Not a single star will be left in the night. The night will not be left. I will die and, with me, the weight of the intolerable universe. I shall erase the pyramids, the medallions, the continents and faces. I shall erase the accumulated past. I shall make dust of history, dust of dust. Now I am looking on the final sunset. I am hearing the last bird. I bequeath nothingness to no one.

The visible universe was an illusion or, more precisely, a sophism. Mirrors and fatherhood are abominable because they multiply it and extend it.

There are no moral or intellectual merits. Homer composed the Odyssey; if we postulate an infinite period of time, with infinite circumstances and changes, the impossible thing is not to compose the Odyssey, at least once.

There is an afternoon on the plain is about to say something; He never says what it says or perhaps infinitely and do not understand it , or understand it but is untranslatable, like music

These ambiguities, redundancies, and deficiencies recall those attributed by Dr. Franz Kuhn to a certain Chinese encyclopedia entitled Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge. On those remote pages it is written that animals are divided into (a) those that belong to the Emperor, (b) embalmed ones, (c) those that are trained, (d) suckling pigs, (e) mermaids, (f) fabulous ones, (g) stray dogs, (h) those that are included in this classification, (i) those that tremble as if they were mad, (j) innumerable ones, (k) those drawn with a very fine camel's hair brush, (l) others, (m) those that have just broken a flower vase, (n) those that resemble flies from a distance.

This network of times which approached one another, forked, cut or secularly ignored, covering all the possibilities. We do not exist in most of the times; in some you and not there; in others, not you; in others, both. In this one, which a favorable fate has granted me, you've come to my house; in another, you, crossing the garden, have found me dead; in another, I say these same words, but am an error, a phantom.

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Jorge Luis
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Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet