Maria > Maria's Quotes

“en algún lugar al que nunca he viajado, gozosamente más allá
de cualquier experiencia, tus ojos tienen su silencio:
en tu gesto más frágil hay cosas que me abarcan,
o que no puedo tocar porque están demasiado cerca

tu mirada más leve me abrirá fácilmente
aunque me haya cerrado como dedos,
siempre me abres pétalo tras pétalo como la Primavera abre
(tocando hábilmente, misteriosamente) su primera rosa

o si tu deseo fuera cerrarme, yo y
mi vida nos cerraremos muy bellamente, súbitamente,
como cuando el corazón de esta flor imagina
la nieve cayendo cuidadosa por doquier;

nada que hayamos de percibir en este mundo iguala
la fuerza de tu intensa fragilidad: cuya textura
me domina con el color de sus campos,
trayendo muerte y eternidad con cada respiro

(yo no sé qué hay en ti que puede cerrar
y abrir; apenas algo en mí comprende
que la voz de tus ojos es más profunda que todas las rosas)
nadie, ni siquiera la lluvia, tiene manos tan pequeñas”
― E.E. Cummings

“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living.”
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

“There are moments when a kind of clarity comes over you, and suddenly you can see through walls to another dimension that you'd forgotten or chosen to ignore in order to continue living with the various illusions that make life, particularily life with other people, possible.”
― Nicole Krauss, Great House

“We search for patterns, you see, only to find where the patterns break. And it’s there, in that fissure, that we pitch our tents and wait.”
― Nicole Krauss, Great House

“...we take comfort in the symmetries we find in life because they suggest a design where there is none.”
― Nicole Krauss, Great House

“She struggled with her sadness, but tried to conceal it, to divide it into smaller and smaller parts and scatter these in places she thought no one would find them.”
― Nicole Krauss, Great House

“When I was with Yoav, everything in me that had been sitting stood up. He had a way of looking at me with a kind of unabashed directness that made me shiver. It's something amazing to feel that for the first time someone is seeing you as you really are, not as they wish you, or you wish yourself, to be.”
― Nicole Krauss, Great House

“You hear a sound and it's truth turning in its grave.”
― Nicole Krauss, Great House

“También es cierto que se dejó encandilar, como tantos otros, por la engañosa armonía de la derrota, por el encanto y el olor de esas flores que se marchitan hermosas en la imaginación pero que se pudren siniestras en las manos”
― Ray Loriga, Ya solo habla de amor

“Es el recuerdo, no el olvido, el verdadero invento del demonio”
― Ray Loriga, Tokyo Doesn't Love Us Anymore

“Sabes que todo lo mejor vendrá con los cambios pero tienes miedo al cerrar la puerta porque ya habías aprendido a manejar las antiguas desgracias, suele pasar, no es nada extraño, un héroe sin miedo es un héroe muerto.”
― ray loriga, Héroes

“Over and over again I sail towards joy, which is never in the room with me, but always near me, across the way, like those rooms full of gayety one sees from the street, or the gayety in the street one sees from a window. Will I ever reach joy? It hides behind the turning merry-go-round of the traveling circus. As soon as I approach it, it is no longer joy. Joy is a foam, an illumination. I am poorer and hungrier for the want of it. When I am in the dance, joy is outside in the elusive garden. When I am in the garden, I hear it exploding from the house. When I am traveling, joy settles like an aurora borealis over the land I leave. When I stand on the shore I see it bloom on the flag of a departing ship. What joy? Have I not possessed it? I want the joy of simple colors, street organs, ribbons, flags, not a joy that takes my breath away and throws me into space alone where no one else can breathe with me, not the joy that comes from a lonely drunkenness. There are so many joys, but I have only known the ones that come like a miracle, touching everything with light.”
― Anaïs Nin

“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

“Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. But for an instant – because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to its climax – the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies”
― Alejandra Pizarnik

“An unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. Nothing happens in it. No one intrudes. It is a bare stage where the inert I is assisted by the I suffering from that inertia. The latter wishes to free the former, but all efforts fail, as Theseus would have failed had he been not only himself but also the Minotaur; to kill him then, he would have had to kill himself”
― Alejandra Pizarnik

“I don’t know about birds
nor do I know the history of fire.
But I believe that my solitude should have wings”
― alejandra pizarnik

“Cierra las puertas de tu rostro para que no digan luego que aquella mujer enamorada fuiste tú.”
― Alejandra Pizarnik

“Señor,
la jaula se ha vuelto pájaro.”
― Alejandra Pizarnik, Poesía completa

“Cansada del estruendo mágico de las vocales
Cansada de inquirir con los ojos elevados
Cansada de la espera del yo de paso
Cansada de aquel amor que no sucedió
Cansada de mis pies que sólo saben caminar
Cansada de la insidiosa fuga de preguntas
Cansada de dormir y de no poder mirarme
Cansada de abrir la boca y beber el viento
Cansada de sostener las mismas vísceras
Cansada del mar indiferente a mis angustias”
― Alejandra Pizarnik, Poesía completa

“A mi noche no la mata ningún sol.”
― Alejandra Pizarnik, Poesía completa

“Este amor
tan violento
tan frágil
tan tierno
tan desesperado
Este amor
bello como el día
y malo como el tiempo
cuando hace mal tiempo
Este amor tan verdadero
Este amor tan hermoso
Tan Felíz
Tan alegre
y tan irrisorio
que tiembla de miedo como un niño en la oscuridad.”
― Prévert, Jacques

“Si prefiero las mujeres a los hombres es porque ellas tienen la ventaja de ser mas desequilibradas, es decir, mas complicadas, mas perspicaces y mas cínicas, por no hablar de esta misteriosa superioridad que confiere una esclavitud milenaria”
― Cioran EMIL

“O que me dói não é
O que há no coração
Mas essas coisas lindas
Que nunca existirão…

São as formas sem forma
Que passam sem que a dor
As possa conhecer
Ou as sonhar o amor.

São como se a tristeza
Fosse árvore e uma a uma,
Caíssem suas folhas
Entre o vestígio e a bruma”
― Fernando Pessoa

“Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.”
― Emil Cioran, All Gall is Divided: Aphorisms

“The only interesting philosophers are the ones who have stopped thinking and have begun to search for happiness.”
― Emil Cioran, Tears and Saints

“Chaque pensée devrait rappeler la ruine d’un sourire”
― Emil Cioran

“There is a whole range of melancholy: it begins with a smile and a landscape and ends with the clang of a broken bell in the soul”
― Emil Cioran, Tears and Saints

“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”
― E.E. Cummings, Selected Poems

“An entire life spent reading would have fulfilled my every desire; I already knew that at the age of seven. The texture of the world is painful, inadequate; unalterable, or so it seems to me. Really, I believe that an entire life spent reading would have suited me best. Such a life has not been granted me...”
― Michel Houellebecq, Whatever

“It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.”
― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness