Pablo Neruda Quotes
As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.
Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.
Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
Between lips and lips there are cities of great ash and moist summit, drops of when and how, vague comings and goings: between lips and lips as along a shore of sand and glass the wind passes.
And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.
Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?
When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
Is 4 the same 4 for everybody? Are all sevens equal? When the convict ponders the light is it the same light that shines on you?
White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.
Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
Hay algo más tonto en la vida Que llamarse Pablo Neruda? (is there anything more insane in this life than being called Pablo Neruda?)
O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.
If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on
When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.
Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.
I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
