The diseased, anyway, are more interesting than the healthy. The words of the diseased, even those who can manage only a murmur, carry more weight than those of the healthy. Then, too, all healthy people will in the future know disease. That sense of time, ah, the diseased man’s sense of time, what treasure hidden in a desert cave. Then, too the diseased truly bite, whereas the healthy pretend to bite but really only snap at the air. Then, too, then, too, then, too.

The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.

The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.

It's strange how things happen, Mauricio Silva, known as the Eye, always tried to escape from violence even at the risk of being considered a coward, but the violence, the real violence, can't be escaped, at least not by us, born in Latin America in the 1950s, those of us who were around twenty years old when Salvador Allende died.

Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.

In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats