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No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

Roberto Bolano

We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Book Death Philosophy Reading Stop
Being alone makes us stronger. That’s the honest truth. But it’s cold comfort, since even if I wanted company no one will come near me anymore.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Alone Company Honesty Myself Strong Truth
If you’re going to say what you want to say, you’re going to hear what you don’t want to hear.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Arrogance Disrespect Ego Yourself
We all have to die a bit every now and then and usually it’s so gradual that we end up more alive than ever. Infinitely old and infinitely alive.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Alive Death End Gradual Infinite
When you die of sorrow it’s as if you’ve broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That’s sorrow.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Body Bone Death Sorrow Yourself
Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Blood Literature Product Strange
They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn’t laugh or be sad with him.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Himself Laughter Reading Sadness Study
Every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Book Myself Reading Wait World
Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Contamination Game Poetry
Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Myself Talk Understand
You have to know how to look even if you don’t know what you’re looking for.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Known Yourself
I kept having dreams all night. I thought they were touching me with their fingers. But dreams don’t have fingers, they have fists, so it must have been scorpions.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Dreams Fingers Thinking Touching
There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Fist Poem Recite Time
If I were to say what I really think I would be arrested or shut away in a lunatic asylum. Come on, I am sure that it would be the same for everyone.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Arrest Myself Retard Thinking
Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Neighbor Poetry Prison
Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn’t clear, was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.
ROBERTO BOLANO

Death Passage Reality Tradition

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

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No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

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