Creo que todos tenemos un poco de esa bella locura que nos mantiene andando cuando todo alrededor es tan insanamente cuerdo.
Creo que no te quiero, que solamente quiero la imposibilidad tan obvia de quererte. Como el guante izquierdo enamorado de la mano derecha.
Si te caes te levanto y sino me acuesto contigo.
I think we all have a little bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us walking when everything around us is so insanely sane.
The novel wins by points, the short story by knockout.
Of all our feelings the only one which really doesn’t belong to us is hope. Hope belongs to life, it’s life itself defending itself. Etcetera.
All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.
Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.
The evolution from happiness to habit is one of death’s best weapons.
I sometimes longed for someone who, like me, had not adjusted perfectly with his age, and such a person was hard to find; but I soon discovered cats, in which I could imagine a condition like mine, and books, where I found it quite often.
Time is born in the eyes, everybody knows that.
Everything can be killed except nostalgia for the kingdom, we carry it in the color of our eyes, in every love affair, in everything that deeply torments and unties and tricks.
Now that I think about it, it seems to me that’s what Idiocy is: the ability to be enthusiastic all the time about anything you like, so that a drawing on the wall does not have to be diminished by the memory of the frescoes of Giotto in Padua.
When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.
There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them at the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility; their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.
A short story relies on those values that make poetry and jazz what they are: tension, rhythms, inner beats, and unforeseen elements within foreseen parameters.
Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
I think it is vanity to want to put into a story anything but the story itself.
The unusual is only found in a very small percentage, except in literary creations, and that is exactly what makes literature.