Fame is a form, perhaps the worst form, of incomprehension.

I have committed the worst of sins one can commit... I have not been happy.

In Spanish it is very difficult to make things flow, because words are over-long. But in English, you have light words.

It seemed incredible that this day, a day without warnings or omens, might be that of my implacable death.

Music, feelings of happiness, mythology, faces worn by time, certain twilights and certain places, want to tell us something, or they told us something that we should not have missed, or they are about to tell us something; this imminence of a revelation that is not produced is, perhaps, the esthetic event.

You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened.

Poets, like the blind, can see in the dark.