Chilean Culture · Chilean Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry · Spanish Literature

Pablo Neruda

Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings… Continue reading Pablo Neruda

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Anthology · Chilean Culture · Chilean Literature · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Poetry · Spanish Literature

Pablo Neruda

There’s No Forgetting Ask me where I have been and I’ll tell you: “Things keep on happening.” I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones; of the river’s duration, destroying itself; I know only the things that the birds have abandoned, or the ocean behind me, or my sorrowing sister. Why the distinctions… Continue reading Pablo Neruda

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Argentine Culture · Argentine Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fantasy · Fiction · Passage · Postmodernism · Quote · Short Fiction · Short Stories · Spanish Culture · Spanish Literature

Jorge Luis Borges

This web of time–the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore each other through the centuries–embraces every possibility. We do not exist in most of them. In some you exist and not I, while in others I do, and you do not, and yet in others both of us exist. In this… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges

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Classic · Excerpt · Non-fiction · Passage · Philosophy · Quote · Spanish Culture · Spanish Literature

Miguel de Unamuno

There is no true love save in suffering, and in this world we have to choose either love, which is suffering, or happiness. And love leads us to no other happiness than that of live itself and its tragic consolation of uncertain hope. The moment love becomes happy and satisfied, it no longer desires and… Continue reading Miguel de Unamuno

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Anthology · Classic · Collection · Poetry · Spanish Culture · Spanish Literature

Federico García Lorca

Arbole, Arbole . . . Tree, tree dry and green. The girl with the pretty face is out picking olives. The wind, playboy of towers, grabs her around the waist. Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets and big, dark capes. “Come to Cordoba, muchacha.” The girl won’t listen to… Continue reading Federico García Lorca

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