Antonio Machado Quotes

I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road-- Only wakes upon the sea. Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.

I. Don't trace out your profile-- forget your side view-- all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren't.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.

Those who deny the existence of the truth postulate the truth of their denial and plainly contradict themselves.

Wherever learning breeds specialists, the sum of human culture is enhanced thereby. That is the illusion and consolation of specialists.

Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way- Only foam trails to the sea.

Mankind owns four things that are no good at sea: rudder, anchor, oars and the fear of going down.

And to walk through life in dreams out of love for the hand that guides us.

Beyond living and dreaming there is something more important: waking up.

The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.

By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind sees the path

At the very smallest wheel of our reasoning it is possible for a handful of questions to break the bank of our answers.

Life is the path you beat while you walk it.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. (Walk, there is no path, the path is made by walking.)

Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

I love Jesus, who said to us: Heaven and earth will pass away. When heaven and earth have passed away, my word will remain. What was your word, Jesus? Love? Forgiveness? Affection? All your words were one word: Wakeup.

I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.

There is no road, the road is made by walking.

Death is something we shouldn't fear because, while we are, death isn't, and when death is, we aren't.

Avoid pulpits, platforms, stages and pedestals. Keep to the hard ground. It is the only way you can judge your approximate status as a man.

My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don’t put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there lies the fountain of youth in which my heart is continually bathing.

No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.

Only a fool thinks price and value are the same.

There is no way; we make the road by walking it.

There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path. . .

What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

Death is something we don't have to fear, since as long as we exist death doesn't and when it does we don't.

The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.

Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human.

All uncertainty is fruitfull ... so long as it is accompanied by the wish to understand

All our efforts must tend towards light.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.

The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

The absence of vices adds so little to the sum of one's virtues.

The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.

XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.

In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.

The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

Life is the path you beat while you walk it It's the walking that beats the path It is not the path that makes the walk

Man's passion for truth is such that he will welcome the bitterest of all postulates so long as it strikes him as true.