Above the street, like a hanged man, swings the spot-lit sign of the neighborhood's best restaurant, closed a long time ago. 
Nothing is ever behind us. 
In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats 
Life left us all where we were meant to be or where it was convenient to leave us and then forgot us, which is as it should be. 
Madness really is contagious, and friends are a blessing, especially when you're on your own. 
With every day that passes I am more convinced that the act of writing is a concious act of humility. 
It's good to love. It's bad to be impressionable. 
Exile is courage. True exile is the true measure of each writer. 
Images,wounds. That is all he can see. And the images are dissolving little by little, like the setting sun, leaving only the wounds. 
Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east. 
Life, or the specter of life, is constantly challenging us for acts we've never committed. And sometimes for acts we never even thought of committing. 
In the current socio-political climate, he said to himself, committing suicide is absurd and redundant. Better to become an undercover poet. 
And quick strokes of other less intimate adventuresFlashed in her wounded eyes like fireflies.
They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him ... 
Among them the nameless girl, with her guillotine mouth, strolling through the past and the future like a movie face. 
Life is mysterious as well as vulgar. 
For her, reading was directly linked to pleasure, not to knowledge or enigmas or constructions or verbal labyrinths ... 
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. 
I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at. 
Literature isn't innocent. I've known that since I was fifteen. 
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. 
A bastard may have no imagination and then do one imaginative thing when you least expect it, said Espinoza. 
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. 
Then they talked about freedom and evil, about the highways of freedom where evil is like a Ferrari. 
Only poetry isn't shit. 
Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight. 
Poetry and prison have always been neighbors. 
And I no longer ask for all the solitude in the world, but for time. 
Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I'd rather not talk about it, because I didn't understand it. 
Mrs Dorothea's typewriter was like a heart, a giant heart beating in the middle of the fog and chaos. 
An oasis of horror in a desert of boredom! 
There's a secret sickness called Lisa. Like all sicknesses, it's miserable and it comes on at night. 
Silence glimmers in the empty hallways, on the radios no one listens to anymore. 
I have hope in children. In children and warriors. In children who fuck like children and warriors who fight like brave men. 
The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower. 
Her eyes like the idealgeography book:
maps of pure nightmare.
"The Ghost of Edna Lieberman
One is prepared for friendship, not for friends. 
We interpret life at moments of the deepest desperation. 
You have to know how to look even if you don't know what you're looking for. 
Hard cocks, with glorious exceptions, were hardly ever literary. 
Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming. 
What cannot be cannot be, besides witch, it's impossible. 
No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them. 
Reading is never a waste of time. 
I thought you were dying, said Amalfitano."No, I was dreaming," said Castillo.
They fucked until she was nothing more than a tremor in his arms. 
We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we? 
When it left, death didn't even close our eyes. 
That sense of time, ah, the diseased man's sense of time, what treasure hidden in a desert cave. 
Everybody tends to pigeonhole things they don't understand," said San Epifanio. 
I am being followed, I realized, with a blend of certitude and astonishment, like a soldier discovering that gangrene has taken hold of his leg. 
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. 
The novel, arguably the author's best, had a disquieting power, like a sleeping crocodile. 
Life is shit, thought Pelletier in astonishment, all of it. 
Great physicists, great mathematicians, great chemists, and publishers knew that one was always feeling one's way in the dark. 
One should read Borges more. 
Silence hovers in the yards, leaving no pages with writing on them, that thing we'll later call the work. 
There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists. 
I hope you die, I said. I hope I die, he said, and then he said: I know I'm going to die. 
The demented strutting of a dumb bird in the moonlight. 
Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears. 
Every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me. 