The more transparent the writing, the more visible the poetry.
Only God knows how much I love you.
The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.
He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in bundles ties with colored ribbons, and they were all unopened.
Her laugh was sad and taciturn, seemingly detached from any feeling of the moment, like something she kept in the cupboard and took out only when she had to, using it with no feeling of ownership, as if the infrequency of her smiles had made her forget the normal way to use them.
In some way impossible to ascertain, after so many years of absense, Jose Arcadio was still an autumnal child, terribly sad and solitary.
Very well, I will marry you if you promise not to make me eat eggplant.
I want the same one, the way she always is, without failures, without fights, without bad memories.
Once again she shuddered with the evidence that time was not passing, as she had just admitted, but that it was turning in a circle.
It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia.
He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians.
She knew that he loved her above all else, more than anything in the world, but only for his own sake.
Then the writing became so fluid that I sometimes felt as if I were writing for the sheer pleasure of telling a story, which may be the human condition that most resembles levitation.
My most important problem was destroying the lines of demarcation that separate what seems real from what seems fantastic.
Make no mistake: peaceful madmen are ahead of the future.
Love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac.
Fernanda, on the other hand, looked for it in vain along the paths of her everyday itinerary without knowing that the search for lost things is hindered by routine habits and that is why it is so difficult to find them.
He thought about his people without sentimentalily, with a strick closing of his accounts with life, beginning to understand how much he really loved the people he hated the most.
He governed as if he felt predestined to never die.
Sex is one’s consolation when love is not enough.
Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.