We accept reality so readily – perhaps because we sense that nothing is real.
As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory – there are only words.
Leaving behind the babble of the plaza, I enter the Library. I feel, almost physically, the gravitation of the books, the enveloping serenity of order, time magically dessicated and preserved.
Happy are the beloved and the lovers and those who can live without love.
There is nothing in the world that is not mysterious, but the mystery is more evident in certain things than in others: in the sea, in the eyes of the elders, in the color yellow, and in music.
How can we manage to illuminate the pathos of our lives?
It’s a shame that we have to choose between two such second-rate countries as the USSR and the USA.
He was very religious; he believed that he had a secret pact with God which exempted him from doing good in exchange for prayers and piety.
The machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men.
What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?
You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?
We have stopped believing in progress. What progress that is !
It only takes two facing mirrors to build a labyrinth.
Time forks perpetually toward innumerable futures.
When I wake up, I wake to something worse. It’s the astonishment of being myself.
Time, which despoils castles, enriches verses.
Loneliness does not worry me; life is difficult enough, putting up with yourself and with your own habits.
There is no point in being overwhelmed by the appalling total of human sufferring; such a total does not exist. Neither poverty nor pain is accumulable.
He constructed a vast labyrinthine of periods, made impassable by the piling-up of clauses upon clauses-clauses in which oversight and bad grammar seemed manifestations of disdain.
A man sets himself the task of portraying the world. Shortly before he dies he discovers that this patient labyrinth of lines is a drawing of his own face.