Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Argentine Short-Story Writer, Essayist, Poet
Of all human tools, the most surprising is, without doubt, the book. The others are extensions of his body. The microscope and the telescope are extensions of his vision, the phone extension of his voice, we also have the plow and the sword, which are extensions of his hand. The book, however, is another thing: the book is an extension of memory and imagination.
One concept corrupts and confuses the others. I am not speaking of the Evil whose limited sphere is ethics; I am speaking of the infinite.
Only persist over time things were not the time.
Poetry is not the books in the library. Poetry is the encounter of the reader with the book, the discovery of the book.
Sleep is distracted from the universe, and distraction is difficult to know who chase him with naked swords.
Talking about their love, Dante recalls that 'Amor led November ad one morte', and, indeed, love took them both to death; both were executed together. Then Dante is curious to find her something. But he is not interested in adultery, is not interested in how they were discovered and then killed. He is interested in something more intimate. He would like to know how they realized that they were lovers, how they fell in love and how it came time sighs sweetness? Here is something that Dante does not say something that feels along this whole episode that highlights her virtue. Here Dante, with infinite compassion, shows us the fate of the two lovers, but also feels like he envies destiny. They remain in Hell, and he will save. But they were loved, while he failed to be loved by the woman he adored, Beatrice. Instead, these two infamous work together, though they can not talk and rotate the black whirling, no hope, no hope at least, tells Dante that their suffering will cease ever, but they are together, and when she talks, says 'we'. In other words, it speaks for both of us, which means that, in a way, they are together. They are together for eternity, both share Inferno, and this appears to it to kind of Dante's Paradise.
The author of an atrocious undertaking ought to imagine that he has already accomplished it, ought to impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past.
The duty on me to define the moon.
The famed author Robert Lewis Stevenson declared that he'd trained his Brownies to be writers. As he slept, they would whisper fantastic plots in his ear -- for example, the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and the diabolical Mr. Hyde, and that episode in Olalla when a young man from an old Spanish family bites his sister's hand.
The indecipherable dust, once Shakespeare.
The mirrors and copulation are abominable because they multiply the number of men.
The story of two dreams is a coincidence, a line drawn by chance, like the shapes of lions or horses that are sometimes formed by clouds.
The verb read as the verb to love and the verb dream, does not support the 'imperative'. I always advised my students that if a book bores being left; do not read because it is famous, not to read a book that is modern, not to read a book because it is old. The reading should be one of the ways of happiness and can not force anyone to be happy .
Then I reflected that everything happens to a man precisely, precisely now. Centuries of centuries and only in the present events occur; countless men in the air, on land and sea, and all that really happens to me.
There is a saying that only the man who has already committed a crime and repented of it is incapable of that crime; to be free of an erroneous opinion, I myself might add, one must at some time have professed it.
There is one who boasts of what he has written; I, of what I have read.
This is the end of the story of the forty-seven loyal men -except that has no end, because the other men, who are not loyal perhaps, but never lose all hope of being, we will continue honoring them in words.
Time is the tiger that devours me, but I am that tiger.
To think is to ignore the differences, to generalize, to abstract.
Misery requires paradises lost.
My name is someone & anyone. I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.
Of all the books I have delivered to the presses, none, I think, is as personal as the straggling collection mustered for this hodgepodge, precisely because it abounds in reflections and interpolations. Few things have happened to me, and I have read a great many. Or rather, few things have happened to me more worth remembering than Schopenhauer's thought or the music of England's words.
One day or one night?between my days and nights, what difference can there be??I dreamed that there was a grain of sand on the floor of my cell. Unconcerned, I went back to sleep; I dreamed that I woke up and there were two grains of sand. Again I slept; I dreamed that now there were three. Thus the grains of sand multiplied, little by little, until they filled the cell and I was dying beneath that hemisphere of sand. I realized that I was dreaming; with a vast effort I woke myself. But waking up was useless?I was suffocated by the countless sand. Someone said to me: 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 the grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened. I felt lost. The sand crushed my mouth, but I cried out: I cannot be killed by sand that I dream ?nor is there any such thing as a dream within a dream.
Others died, but it happened in the past, the season (as all men know) most favorable for death. Is it possible that I, subject of Yaqub Almansur, must die as roses had to die and Aristotle?
Poetry remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art.