Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
And why should I regret what I have done, when I cannot help doing what I do, which is what I have done?
To wound the heart is to create it.
One who walks from fire to fire dies from the cold.
You see me when you touch me: when you shouldn’t see me.
I tell myself the real “it’s fine” on the ground, having fallen.
All the suns labor to kindle your flame and a microbe puts it out.
We become aware of the void as we fill it.
Do not speak harshly of your misfortunes to anyone, for everyone is partly to blame.
We have a world for each, but we don’t have a world for all.
My truths do not last long in me, not as long as those that are not mine.
Nothing - it is said of this and that, of almost everything. Only it is never said of nothing.
You are sad because they abandon you and you have not fallen.
My faults will not pass into other hands through any fault of mine. I do not want another fault on my hands.
What I did or didn't do, I think it's over now. And what I will or will not do, I think is also over.
When I approach a soul, I do not take with me a desire to become acquainted with it; when I go away from one I do.
When I break any of the chains that bind me I feel that I make myself smaller.
It was always easier for me to love than to praise.
Who has seen with their eyes open can see again, but with the eyes closed.
Everything that changes, where it changes, leaves behind it an abyss.
My voice tells me: “That’s how it all is.” And the echo of my voice tells me: “That’s how you are.”