Time forks perpetually toward innumerable futures.

We did meet forty years ago. At that time we were both influenced by Whitman and I said, jokingly in part, 'I don't think anything can be done in Spanish, do you?' Neruda agreed, but we decided it was too late for us to write our verse in English. We'd have to make the best of a second-rate literature.

The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral.

My books standing there on the shelf do not know that I have written them.

The time for your labor has been granted.

Dictatorships foster oppression, dictatorships foster servitude, dictatorships foster cruelty; more abominable is the fact that they foster idiocy.

How can we manage to illuminate the pathos of our lives?