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.
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’re artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don’t we?
Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.
I’ll tell you, my friends: it’s all in the nerves. The nerves that tense and relax as you approach the edges of companionship and love. The razor-sharp edges of companionship and love.
They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn’t laugh or be sad with him...
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.
No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.
Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
Even on the poorest streets people could be heard laughing. Some of these streets were completely dark, like black holes, and the laughter that came from who knows where was the only sign, the only beacon that kept residents and strangers from getting lost.
Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.
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.
But every single damn thing matters! Only we don’t realize. We just tell ourselves that art runs on one track and life, our lives, on another, and we don’t realize that’s a lie.
If life is misery, why do we endure it?
Nothing is ever behind us.
Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.
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.
The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
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.