Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Nothing is ever behind us.
One should read Borges more.
Literature + Illness = Illness
Only in chaos are we conceivable.
Every hundred feet the world changes
If life is misery, why do we endure it?
Reading is more important than writing.
Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
we interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation.
There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.
I'm an educated man, the prisons I know are subtle ones.
We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?
The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.
Every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me.
The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.
You have to know how to look even if you don't know what you're looking for.
When I was done traveling, I returned convinced of one thing: we're nothing.
Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better
Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.
Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.
No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.
In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats
Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.
There's no place on earth with more dumb girls per square foot than a college in California.
If you're going to say what you want to say, you're going to hear what you don't want to hear.
Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.
Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.
Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.
Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it's knowledge and questions.
They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him.
We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.
For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths.
You run risks. That's the plain truth. You run risks and, even in the most unlikely places, you are subject to destiny's whims.
Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn't clear ... was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.
When you die of sorrow it's as if you've broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That's sorrow.
So everything lets us down, including curiosity and honesty and what we love best. Yes, said the voice, but cheer up, it's fun in the end.
In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet.
Being alone makes us stronger. That’s the honest truth. But it’s cold comfort, since even if I wanted company no one will come near me anymore.
We all have to die a bit every now and then and usually it's so gradual that we end up more alive than ever. Infinitely old and infinitely alive.
When people read his books they have an uncontrollable desire to hang the author in the town square. I can’t think of a higher honor for a writer.
If I were to say what I really think I would be arrested or shut away in a lunatic asylum. Come on, I am sure that it would be the same for everyone.
Jesus is the masterpiece. The thieves are minor works. Why are they there? Not to frame the crucifixion, as some innocent souls believe, but to hide it.
…I realized my happiness was artificial. I felt happy because I saw the others were happy and because I knew I should feel happy, but I wasn't really happy.
I'd obviously never heard of the group, but my ignorance in literary matters is to blame for that (every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me).
I kept having dreams all night. I thought they were touching me with their fingers. But dreams don't have fingers, they have fists, so it must have been scorpions.
For a moment the two of them looked at each other, wordless, as if they were asleep and their dreams had converged on common ground, a place where sound was alien.
The American mirror, said the voice, the sad American mirror of wealth and poverty and constant useless metamorphosis, the mirror that sails and whose sails are pain.
As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.