Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
Knowing how to die costs a lifetime.
Night is a world lit by itself.
Since I only prepare for what ought to happen to me, I am never prepared for what does. Never.
What we pay for with our lives never costs too much.
When you seem to be listening to my words, they are your words, with me listening.
Certainties are arrived at only on foot.
The flower you hold in your hands was born today and is already your age.
I live, to get out of what I live through.
Men and things rise, fall, move away, approach. Everything is a comedy of distances.
He who holds me by a thread is not strong; the thread is strong.
Among the superficial, if you are not one of them, one of them has to lead you by the hand.
When I am asleep, I dream what I dream when I am awake. Its a continuous dream.
All I know does not even help me to know it.
My name, far more than it names me, reminds me of my name.
Those who do not find a fountain through which to pour their tears, do not cry.
Whoever loves knowing why they love, doesn’t love.
It is easier to pick it up fallen than not to let it fall. Let it fall and you will pick it up.
For a thousand years I have been asking myself, "what will I do now?" And still I need not answer.
Yes, I’ll move away. I’d rather sorrow over your absence than over you.
He who does not fill his world with phantoms remains alone.