I have no way of knowing whether the events that I am about to narrate are effects or causes.

To arrange a library is to practice in a quiet and modest way the art of criticism.

What will die with me the day I die? What pathetic or frail image will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a bay horse in a vacant lot on the corner of Sarrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

This felicitous supposition declared that there is only one Individual, and that this indivisible Individual is every one of the separate beings in the universe, and that these beings are the instruments and masks of divinity itself.

Literature is not exhaustible, for the sufficient and simple reason that a single book is not.

I think of reading a book as no less an experience than travelling or falling in love.

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