Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
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.
Reason is lost reasoning.
I do not agree with you, but if you do not agree with yourself either, then I agree with you.
Sometimes I find that misery is so vast that I am afraid of needing it.
The killer of souls does not kill a hundred souls. He kills his own soul a hundred times.
A thing, until it is everything, is noise, and once it is everything it is silence.
My poverty is not complete: it lacks me.
Sometimes what I want and what I don’t want make so many concessions to each other that they end up looking alike.