The endless corridors of memory, the doors that open into an empty room where all the summers have come to rot — Octavio Paz, from “Sunstone,” World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time, ed. Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W. W. Norton & Co., 2000) Advertisements
I am where I was: I walk behind the murmur, footsteps within me, heard with my eyes, the murmur is in the mind, I am my footsteps, I hear the voices that I think, the voices that think me as as I think them. I am the shadow my words cast. — Octavio Paz,… Continue reading Octavio Paz
your mouth tastes/ like poisoned time — Octavio Paz, from “Sunstone,” Octavio Paz, The Collected Poems, 1957-1987. Edited and translated by Eliot Weinberger. (New Directions, April 17, 1991) Originally published 1987.
“Don’t worry,” he would say, smiling. “Dying is much more difficult than one imagines.” — Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper & Row, 1970)
He sank into the rocking chair, the same one in which Rebecca had sat during the early days of the house to give embroidery lessons, and in which Amaranta had played Chinese checkers with Colonel Gerineldo Marquez, and in which Amarana Ursula had sewn the tiny clothing for the child, and in that flash of… Continue reading Gabriel García Márquez
Your head has dissolved into thin air and I can see the rhododendrons through your stomach. It’s not that you are dead or anything dramatic like that, it is simply that you are fading away and I can’t even remember your name. — Leonora Carrington, The Hearing Trumpet. (Exact Change; 1ST edition, February 2, 2004)… Continue reading Leonora Carrington
With shadows I draw worlds, I scatter worlds with shadows. I hear the light beat on the other side. — Octavio Paz, from “This Side,” The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz: 1957-1987, trans. Eliot Weinberger (New Directions, 1987)