Great Throughts Treasury

"And their priests never suspected Hands & Feet were but the extremities of the same god."

"And to fill all these white pages that are left for me with the same monotonous question: at what hour do the hours end?"

"Architecture is the least venal witness to history."

"A thousand things at once asking for our attention and none of them manages to keep us; life becomes so we sand between your toes and hours smoke in the brain."

"Admiration for the Father, symbol of the closed and aggressive, able to fuck and open it through in an expression we use when we want to impose on other our superiority: I am your father... There is the founder of a people; It is not the patriarch who exercises parental witness against; is not king, judge, head of clan. Is power, isolated in his own power, unrelated or compromise with the outside world. It is pure isolation, loneliness that eats itself and devours it touches. Not belong to our world; it is not our city; do not live in our neighborhood. It comes from far, far away forever. It is strange. It is impossible not to notice the similarity that keeps the figure of male with the Spanish conquistador. That is the model-more mythical than real-governing representations that the Mexican people have been made ??of the powerful: caciques, feudal lords, landowners, politicians, generals, captains of industry. They are male bad-asses."

"A world is born when two kiss."

"All is visible and all elusive,"

"Alcoholism is a search for a common language, or at least, it is a compensation for a language that has been lost. The use of drugs does not imply the overestimation of the value of language but of silence. Drunkenness exaggerates communication; drugs destroy it. Young people's preference for drugs reveals a change in the contemporary attitude toward language and communication. The first to see the differences between drugs and wine was Baudelaire: Wine exalts the will; hashish destroys it. Wine is a physical stimulant; hashish a suicidal weapon. Wine mellows us and makes us sociable; hashish isolates us. Wine is social, drugs solitary; the one inflames the senses, the other rouses the imagination."

"And is not it remarkable that missing the causes, the effects persist? And the effects of obscure causes?"

"Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency. Circular The afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks. All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can not be touched. Paper, book , pencil, glass, rest in the shade of Their names. Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood. The light turns the indifferent wall into a ghostly theater of reflections. I find myself in the middle of an eye, watching myself in its blank stare. The moment scatters. Motionless, I stay and go: pause I am."

"Because two bodies, naked and entwined, leap over time, they are invulnerable, nothing can touch them, they return to the source. There is no you, no I, no tomorrow, no yesterday, no names, the truth of two in a single body, a single soul, oh total being."

"Being yourself is always to become that other than we are and that we have hidden within us, mostly as a promise or possibility of being."

"At first I couldn't see anything. I fumbled along the cobblestone street. I lit a cigarette. Suddenly the moon appeared from behind a black cloud, lighting a white wall that was crumbled in places. I stopped, blinded by such whiteness. Wind whistled slightly. I breathed the air of the tamarinds. The night hummed, full of leaves and insects. Crickets bivouacked in the tall grass. I raised my head: up there the stars too had set up camp. I thought that the universe was a vast system of signs, a conversation between giant beings. My actions, the cricket's saw, the star's blink, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases from that dialogue. What word could it be, of which I was only a syllable? Who speaks the word? To whom is it spoken? I threw my cigarette down on the sidewalk. Falling, it drew a shining curve, shooting out brief sparks like a tiny comet. I walked a long time, slowly. I felt free, secure between the lips that were at that moment speaking me with such happiness. The night was a garden of eyes."

"At times poetry is the dizziness of bodies and the dizziness of speech and the dizziness of death, the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens, the laughter That sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments, the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page, the despair That paper boards a boat and crosses, for forty days and forty nights, the night-and the day is sorrow-sorrow desert, the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self, the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors, the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Nezahualcoyotl, the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought, the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands, the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language, the love and the love unheard unseen and the unsaid love . The love in love"

"Beyond myself, somewhere, I wait for my arrival."

"As soon as the time is divided into yesterday, today and tomorrow, in hours, minutes and seconds, man ceases to be one eventually ceases to match the flow of reality."

"Art is what remains of religion: the dance above the yawning abyss."

"Between the language, be social by nature, and the writer who breeds only in solitude, thus provides a very strange relationship: thanks to the writer amorphous horizontal stands and individualized language; through language, the modern writer, the other broken lines of communication with his people and his time, participates in the life of the City."

"Bodies are visible hieroglyphs. Everybody is an erotic metaphor, and the meaning of all these metaphors is always the same: death."

"By diminishing the value of silence, publicity has also diminished that of language. The two are inseparable: knowing how to speak has always meant knowing how to keep silent, knowing that there are times when one should say nothing."

"Contemporary man has rationalized the myths, but he has not been able to destroy them."

"Distrust, dissimulation, polite reserve that shuts off the strange irony, all, in short, the psychological swings that by avoiding the gaze of others shirk we ourselves are traits dominated people, who fears and Mr. pretending front. It is revealing that our intimacy never bring out naturally without the spur of the party, alcohol or death... To leave himself the servant needs to jump barriers, drunk, forget their condition. Living alone, without witnesses. Only in solitude dare to be."

"Cubism had been an analysis of the object and an attempt to put it before us in its totality; both as analysis and as synthesis, it was a criticism of appearance. Surrealism transmuted the object, and suddenly a canvas became an apparition: a new figuration, a real transfiguration."

"Drugs are nihilistic: they undermine all values and radically overturn all our ideas about good and evil, what is just and what is unjust, what is permitted and what is forbidden."

"Deserve what you dream."

"Each poem is unique. In each work late, with greater or lesser extent, all poetry. Each reader looking for something in the poem. And it is not unusual to find it: You already carrying."

"Erotic acts are instinctive; they fulfill a role in nature. The idea is familiar, but it is one that contains a paradox: there is nothing more natural than sexual desire; there is nothing less natural than the forms in which it is made manifest and satisfied."

"Each time we try to express ourselves we have to break with ourselves."

"Eroticism and poetry: the first is a metaphor for sexuality, the other a eroticization of language."

"EVERYONE, at some point, it has been revealed to us our existence as something particular transferable and beautiful. Almost always this revelation is in adolescence. The discovery of ourselves manifests as knowing ourselves alone; between the world and opens us an impalpable, transparent wall, that of our consciousness."

"Everything is language."

"Facing the little be the man with the full being of God, religion posits an eternal life. So redeems us from death, but makes terrestrial life-long punishment and atonement for the original sin. By killing death, religion completely devoted to life. Eternity uninhabited instantly. Because life and death are inseparable. Death is present in life: live dying. And every minute we die, we live. When you take away the dying, religion takes life. On behalf of eternal life, religion says the death of this life. Arco and the lyre"

"Feeling alone is not to feel inferior, but different. The feeling of loneliness is not an illusion, as sometimes it is the inferiority-but the expression of a fact: we are, indeed, different. And, really, we're alone."

"Every reader - the same poet, each poem - any other. Without a moment's standing still, poetry not in a hurry. In conversation, every phrase anticipates the following: this chain has a beginning and an end. In verses first sentence contains the last, as the last - first. Poetry - the only way to resist the linear time, the so-called progress."

"Firmly planted. Not fallen from on high: sprung up from below. Ochre, the color of burnt honey. The color of a sun buried a thousand years ago and dug up only yesterday. Fresh green and orange stripes running across its still-warm body. Circles, Greek frets: scattered traces of a lost alphabet? The belly of a woman heavy with child, the neck of a bird. If you cover and uncover its mouth with the palm of your hand, it answers you with a deep murmur, the sound of bubbling water welling up from its depths; if you tap its sides with your knuckles, it gives a tinkling laugh of little silver coins falling on stones. It has many tongues: it speaks of the language of clay and minerals, of air currents flowing between canyon walls, of washerwomen as they scrub, of angry skies, of rain. A vessel of baked clay: do not put it in a glass case alongside rare precious objects. It would look quite out of place. Its beauty is related to the liquid that it contains and to the thirst that it quenches. Its beauty is corporal: I see it, I touch it, I smell it, I hear it. If it is empty, It must be filled; if it is full, it must be emptied. I take it by the shaped handle as I would take a woman by the arm, I lift it up, I tip over a pitcher into which I pour milk or pulque - lunar liquids that open and close the doors of dawn and dark, waking a sleeping."

"For he is superstitious grown of late,"

"History is the cruel reality of a nightmare; man's greatness is to make beautiful and durable works with the real substance of this nightmare."

"He is astonished at the fact of his being, and this astonishment leads to reflection: as he leans over the river of his consciousness, he asks himself if the face that appears there, disfigured by the water, is his own. The singularity of his being, which is pure sensation in children, becomes a problem and a question"

"I don't believe that there are dangerous writers: the danger of certain books is not in the books themselves but in the passions of their readers."

"I remember my loves, my conversation, my friendships. I remember it all, see it all, see them all. With melancholy, but without nostalgia. And above all, without hope. I know that it is immortal, and that, if we are anything, we are the hope of something. For me, expectation has spent itself. I quit the nevertheless, the even, the in spite of everything, the moratoriums, the excuses and forgiving. I know the mechanism of the trap of morality and the drowsiness of certain words. I have lost faith in all those constructions of stone, ideas, ciphers. I quit. I no longer defend this broken tower. And, in silence, I await the event."

"I went to the little window and inhaled the country air. One could hear the breathing of the night, feminine, enormous."

"I too await the coming of my hour, I too exist. No. I quit."

"In the ebb and flow of our passions and occupations (always cleaved, and I always double and double the other me), there is a moment when everything compact. Opposites do not disappear but are melted for a moment. It is like a suspension mood: time is not heavy. The Upanishads teach that this reconciliation is ananda or delight in the One True, few are able to achieve such status. But all, ever, and has been for a split second, have glimpsed something similar. One need not be a mystic to brush this certainty. We were all children. We all loved. Love is a state of assembly and participation, open to men in lovemaking consciousness is like the wave that defeated the obstacle, before collapsing, stands in a fullness in which everything - form and movement, momentum upward and gravity - reaches an equilibrium without support, based on himself. Stillness of movement. And in the same way through a beloved body glimpse a fuller life, more life than life, glimpsed through the fixed beam poem poetry. This moment contains all moments. Still flowing, time stops, full of itself. Bow And The Lyre"

"In the face of the modern crisis, both poets turn their eyes to the past and actualize history: every epoch is this epoch. But Eliot actually desires to return and reinstall Christ; Pound uses the past as another form of the future. Having lost the center of his world, he throws himself into every adventure. Unlike Eliot, he is a reactionary, not a conservative. In fact, Pound has never ceased to be a North American and he is the legitimate descendent of Whitman, this is, he is a son of utopia.... Pound's erudition is a banquet after an expedition of conquest; Eliot's, the search for a standard that will give meaning to history, stability to movement. Pound accumulates quotations with the heroic air of one who robs graves; Eliot orders them as if he were hauling in the relics of a shipwreck. Pound's work is a journey that perhaps leads us nowhere; Eliot's, a search for the ancestral home."

"If revolutions are not made ??with words, ideas are not implemented by decree."

"If loneliness is the Mexican stagnant waters, the U.S. is the mirror. We have ceased to be sources."

"In any erotic encounter there is an invisible and always active character: imagination."

"In writing history I mean the general or universal. There is no other. Things called national history is the mirror of man-and-so is universal or an anecdote desktop"

"In regard to the present matter, if the present matters: I do not belong to the masters. I don't wash my hands of it, but I am not a judge, nor a witness for the prosecution, nor an executioner. I do not torture, interrogate, or suffer interrogation. I do not loudly plead for leniency, nor wish to save myself or anyone else. And for all that I don't do and for all that they do to us, I neither ask forgiveness nor forgive. Their piety is as abject as their justice. Am I innocent? I'm guilty. Am I guilty? I'm innocent. (I'm innocent when I'm guilty, guilty when I'm innocent. I'm guilty when ... but that is another song. Another song? It's all the same song.) Guilty innocent, innocent guilty, the fact is I quit."

"It 'a long and silent street. walk up in the dark and miss one's step and fall and get up and walk blindly tread silent stones and dry leaves and someone behind me doing the same: if I stop, it stops. Though run, run. I turn one. 's always dark and without exit and turn corners n which everything turns on the road where no one waiting, did not you follow where I follow kapoione that staggers and gets up and says seeing-with: nobody."