Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
To bless thine enemy is a good way to satisfy thy vanity.
Translations are a partial and precious documentation of the changes the text suffers.
My deplorable condition Argentine I prevent incurring the praise. Mandatory gender in Uruguay, when the theme is an Uruguayan
No one can read two thousand pounds. For four centuries that I saw I did not have to read more than half a dozen. Besides, what matters is not to read but to read. The printing press, now abolished, was one of the worst scourges of humanity, as it has tended to multiply unnecessary texts to vertigo. In my time at me yesterday, I answered, the triumphant superstition that overnight events were happening that would have been ashamed to ignore.
On February 14, I received a telegram from Buenos Aires urging me to return home immediately; my father was not at all well. God forgive me, but the prestige of being the recipient of an urgent telegram, the desire to communicate to all of Fray Bentos the contradiction between the negative form of the news and the absoluteness of the adverbial phrase, the temptation to dramatize my grief by feigning a virile stoicism-all this perhaps distracted me from any possibility of real pain.
One of the schools in Tl”n has reached the point of denying time. It reasons that the present is undefined, that the future has no other reality than as present hope, that past is no more than present memory... Another maintains that the universe is comparable to those code systems in which not all the symbols have meaning, and in which only that which happens every three hundredth night is true...
Over time you realize that humiliates or despise a human being, sooner or later suffer the same humiliations or multiplied squared slights. Over time you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans. Eventually you realize that rush things or force them to pass will cause the end are not as you expected. Eventually you realize that actually the best was not the future, but the time you were living right at that moment. Over time you will see that although you are happy with those who are next to you, you fantasize terribly that yesterday were you and now they are gone. Over time you will learn that try to forgive or apologize, say you love, say strange, say you need, say you want to be friends, at a grave, no longer makes any sense. But unfortunately, only with time.
Read, for now, it is a subsequent activity to write. More resigned, more civil, more intellectual
Solomon saith: There is no new thing upon the earth. So that as Plato had an imagination, that all knowledge was but remembrance; so Solomon giveth his sentence, that all novelty is but oblivion.
That is what always happens: we never know whether we are victors or whether we are defeated.
The certitude that everything has been written negates us or turns us into phantoms. I know of districts in which the young men prostrate themselves before books and kiss their pages in a barbarous manner, but they do not know how to decipher a single letter. Epidemics, heretical conflicts, peregrinations which inevitably degenerate into banditry, have decimated the population. I believe I have mentioned suicides, more and more frequent with the years. Perhaps my old age and fearfulness deceive me, but I suspect that the human species -- the unique species -- is about to be extinguished, but the Library will endure: illuminated, solitary, infinite, perfectly motionless, equipped with precious volumes, useless, incorruptible, secret.
The execution was set for the 29th of March, at nine in the morning. This delay was due to a desire on the part of the authorities to act slowly and impersonally, in the manner of planets or vegetables.
The goal is to forget. You have gone before.
The man forgets that he is a dead conversing with the dead.
The possibilities of the art of combination are not infinite, but they tend to be frightful. The Greeks engendered the chimera, a monster with heads of the lion, the dragon and the goat; the theologians of the second century, the Trinity, in which the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost are inextricably tied; the Chinese zoologists, the ti-yiang, a vermilion supernatural bird, endowed with six feet and four wings, but without a face or eyes; the geometers of the nineteenth century, the hypercube, a figure with four dimensions, which encloses an infinite number of cubes and has as its faces eight cubes and twenty-four squares. Hollywood has just enriched this vain museum of horrors: by means of an artistic malignity called dubbing, it proposes monsters that combine the illustrious features of Greta Garbo with the voice of Aldonza Lorenzo.
The things that are said in literature are always the same. What is important is the way they are said. Looking for metaphors, for example: When I was a young man I was always hunting for new metaphors. Then I found out that really good metaphors are always the same.
The worst labyrinth is not that intricate form that can entrap us forever, but a single and precise straight line
There are those who cannot imagine a world without birds; there are those who cannot imagine a world without water; but in my case I am unable to imagine a world without books.
There is no intellectual exercise which is not ultimately useless.
Things duplicate themselves in Tl”n; they also tend to grow vague or ?sketchy,? and to lose detail when they begin to be forgotten. The classic example is the doorway that continued to exist so long as a certain beggar frequented it, but which was lost to sight when he died. Sometimes a few birds, a horse, have saved the ruins of an amphitheater.'
Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords, resigned to kill and to die.
To die for a religion is easier than to live it fully.
Truly fine poetry must be read aloud. A good poem does not allow itself to be read in a low voice or silently. If we can read it silently, it is not a valid poem: a poem demands pronunciation. Poetry always remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art. It remembers that it was first song.
My destination is the Spanish language, Bronze Francisco de Quevedo, but in the slow night walkabout, I extol more intimate music. Some was given to me by the blood- Oh voice of Shakespeare and Scripture, Other by chance, which is generous, but you, sweet language of Germany, you have chosen and searched alone. Through vigils and grammars, the jungle of declensions, the dictionary, which never succeeds with the precise shade I was getting closer. My nights are filled with Virgil, I once said; I could also have said H”lderlin and Angelus Silesius. Heine gave me their high nightingales, Goethe, the fate of a late love, an indulgent and mercenary once; Keller, rose a hand leaves in the hand of a dead than the he loved and you never know if it's white or red. You, the language of Germany, are your work Capital: love interlacing the composite voices, vocal Open, sounds that allow the hexameter scholar of Greek and your rumor of forests and nights. I had some time. Today, on the edge of the weary years, I spotted Lejana like algebra and the moon.
No one is a poet from eight to twelve and from two to six. Whoever is a poet is one always, and continually assaulted by poetry.