Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
I am in myself so little that what they do with me scarcely interests me.
Victims take pity on victims.
My heaviness comes from the heights.
You are fastened to them and cannot understand how, because they are not fastened to you.
They are like me, I tell myself. And in that way I protect myself against them. And in that way I protect myself against myself.
Almost without words, you’ve come to this world, which understands nothing without words.
Pain doesn’t follow us; it walks up front.
I wanted to reach what was right on the right paths. And so I began to live mistaken.
Love, when it fits inside a flower, is infinite.
You are a puppet, but in the hands of the infinite, which are perhaps your hands.
Injury, when it is slight, upsets me; when it is strong, it calms me.
In no one did I find who I should be like. And I stayed like that: like no one.
The fear of separation is all that unites.
Every truth starts from the newly born. From what wasn’t there.
Troubles also pass, as everything passes, without trouble.
It’s been a long time since I asked anything of heaven, and my arms still haven’t come down.
The love that is not all pain is not all love.
I do not want anything over again. Not even a mother.
Whatever I take, I take too much or too little; I do not take the exact amount. The exact amount is no use to me.
Anyone could annihilate the infinite in an instant.