Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
Would there be this eternal seeking if the found existed?
Human suffering, while it is asleep, is shapeless. If it is wakened it takes the form of the waker.
When I do not walk in the clouds I walk as though I were lost.
From my silence, only my voice is missing.
The trees are alone, the clouds are alone. Everything is alone when I am alone.
Nothing ends without breaking, because everything is endless.
I wouldn’t make myself again the way I once made myself. Perhaps I’d make myself again the way I now dismantle myself.
A great deal that I no longer continue in myself continues there on its own.
Before I traveled my road I was my road.
I know I had everything, but not because I had it. I know because afterwards I had nothing else.
We see by means of something which illumines us, which we do not see.
I know that I went from the brief before to the eternal afterward of everything, but I do not know how.
The things I lose completely are those which, lost by me, are not found by others.
The grieving for everyone and about everything has become a grieving for myself, to myself. And it is still growing.
No one understands that you have given everything. You must give more.
Convince me, but without convictions. Convictions no longer convince me.
The heart is an infinity of massive chains, chaining little handfuls of air.
As long as we think we are worth something, we wrong ourselves.
If I forgot what I have not been, I would forget myself.
Your hurt is so great that it shouldn’t hurt you.