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 BOLANODeath, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn’t clear, was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.
More Roberto Bolano Quotes
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One should read Borges more.
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If life is misery, why do we endure it?
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The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
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For a moment the two of them looked at each other, wordless, as if they were asleep and their dreams had converged on common ground, a place where sound was alien.
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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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You have to know how to look even if you don’t know what you’re looking for.
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Nothing is ever behind us.
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Then he went out without touching anything and put his arm around Ingeborg, and like that, with their arms around each other, they returned to the village while the whole past of the universe fell on their heads.
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The truth is we never stop being children, terrible children covered in sores and knotty veins and tumors and age spots, but ultimately children, in other words we never stop clinging to life because we are life.
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So everything lets us down, including curiosity and honesty and what we love best. Yes, said the voice, but cheer up, it’s fun in the end.
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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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If you’re going to say what you want to say, you’re going to hear what you don’t want to hear.
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We’re artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don’t we?
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I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.
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Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn’t clear, was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.
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There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.
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Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.
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Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
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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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we interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation.
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Reading is more important than writing.
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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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Every hundred feet the world changes.
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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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When I was done traveling, I returned convinced of one thing: we’re nothing.
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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.
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