They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn’t laugh or be sad with him.
ROBERTO BOLANOI’d obviously never heard of the group, but my ignorance in literary matters is to blame for that (every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me).
More Roberto Bolano Quotes
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Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game.
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We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.
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But every single damn thing matters! Only we don’t realize. We just tell ourselves that art runs on one track and life, our lives, on another, and we don’t realize that’s a lie.
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For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths.
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Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.
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Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it’s knowledge and questions.
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Jesus is the masterpiece. The thieves are minor works. Why are they there? Not to frame the crucifixion, as some innocent souls believe, but to hide it.
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The secret story is the one we’ll never know, although we’re living it from day to day, thinking we’re alive, thinking we’ve got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn’t matter.
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The American mirror, said the voice, the sad American mirror of wealth and poverty and constant useless metamorphosis, the mirror that sails and whose sails are pain.
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In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet.
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There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.
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Reading is like thinking, like praying, like talking to a friend, like expressing your ideas, like listening to other people’s ideas, like listening to music, like looking at the view, like taking a walk on the beach.
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Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.
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The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
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In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we’re no more than castrated cats
ROBERTO BOLANO