The Mexican…is familiar with death. [He] jokes about it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it. It is one of his favorite toys and his most steadfast love.
Beyond myself, somewhere, I wait for my arrival.
A flower without a stem, is beauty waiting to die. A heart without love, is a tear waiting to cry.
What sets worlds in motion is the interplay of differences, their attractions and repulsions. Life is plurality, death is uniformity. By suppressing differences and pecularities, by eliminating different civilizations and cultures, progress weakens life and favors death. The ideal of a single civilization for everyone, implicit in the cult of progress and technique, impoverishes and mutilates us. Every view of the world that becomes extinct, every culture that disappears, diminishes a possibility of life
Deserve your dream.
Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone.
Love is not a desire for beauty; it is a yearning for completion.
Light is time thinking about itself.
Reality is a staircase going neither up nor down, we don’t move; today is today, always is today.
A civilization that denies death ends by denying life.
To love is to battle, to open doors, to cease to be a ghost with a number forever in chains, forever condemned by a faceless master; the world changes if two look at each other and see.
The supreme value is not the future but the present. The future is a deceitful time that always says to us, ‘Not Yet,’ and thus denies us… Whoever builds a house for future happiness builds a prison for the present.
The purpose of poetry is to restore to mankind the possibility to wonder.
The universe unfolds in the body, which is its mirror and its creature.
To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes; to hear it is to see it with our ears.
Believing ourselves to be possessors of absolute truth degrades us: we regard every person whose way of thinking is different from ours as a monster and a threat and by so doing turn our own selves into monsters and threats to our fellows.
To love is to undress our names.
Distraction is our habitual state. Not the distraction of the person who withdraws from the world in order to shut himself up in the secret and ever-changing land of his fantasy, but the distraction of the person who is always outside himself, lost in the trivial, senseless, turmoil of everyday life.
If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement.
Beyond happiness or unhappiness, though it is both things, love is intensity; it does not give us eternity but life, that second in which the doors of time and space open just a crack: here is there and now is always.
There is nothing sacred or untouchable except the freedom to think. Without criticism, that is to say, without rigor and experimentation, there is no science, without criticism there is no art or literature. I would also say that without criticism there is no healthy society.
It is always difficult to give oneself up; few persons anywhere ever succeed in doing so, and even fewer transcend the possessive stage to know love for what it actually is: a perpetual discovery, and immersion in the waters of reality, an unending re-creation.
My body, plowed by your body, will turn into a field where one is sown and a hundred reaped.
Every moment is nothing without end.
Love is an attempt at penetrating another being, but it can only succeed if the surrender is mutual.
