Gacela of the Flight I have lost myself in the sea many tunes with my ear full of freshly cut flowers, with my tongue full of love awl agony. I have lost myself in the sea many times as I lose myself in the heart of certain children. There is no one who in giving… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
Finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind. — Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote. Published by Francisco de Robles 1605 (Part One), 1615 (Part Two). Published in English 1612 (Part One), 1620 (Part Two).
The passing of time exacerbates and intensifies any storm, even though there wasn’t the tiniest cloud on the horizon at the beginning. We cannot know what time will do to us with its fine, indistinguishable layers upon layers, we cannot know what it might make of us. It advances stealthily, day by day and hour… Continue reading Javier Marias
I always imagine them at nightfall, in the dusk of a slum or a vacant lot, in that long, quiet moment when things are gradually left alone, with their backs to the sunset, and when colours are like memories or premonitions of other colours. We must not be too prodigal with our angels; they are… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
The past is the absence where fate is at stake. — María Negroni, from “New Jersey,” Night Journey (Princeton University Press, 2002)
Sunset is always disturbing whether theatrical or muted, but still more disturbing is that last desperate glow that turns the plain to rust when on the horizon nothing is left of the pomp and clamor of the setting sun. How hard holding on to that light, so tautly drawn and different, that hallucination which the… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
Sometimes hope (ever more distant) spreads her long branches in the wind, — Roberto Sosa, from “Tegucigalpa,” Return of the River (Curbstone Books, 2001)