Pablo Neruda Quotes - Page 9

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

This means that we have barely disembarked into life, that we've only just now been born, let's not fill our mouths with so many uncertain names, with so many sad labels, with so many pompous letters, with so much yours and mine, with so much signing of papers. I intend to confuse things, to unite them, make them new-born intermingle them, undress them, until the light of the world has the unity of the ocean, a generous wholeness, a fragrance alive and crackling.

I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.

Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?

To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.

I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?

The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading.

In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

Love! Love until the night collapses!

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.

I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.

It's hard to tell / if we close our eyes or if night / opens in us other starred eyes, / if it burrows into the wall of our dream / till some other door opens. / But the dream is only the flitting costume of one moment, / is spent in one beat / of the darkness, / and falls at our feet, cast off / as the day stirs and sails away with us.

But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.

Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?