Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
The killer of souls does not kill a hundred souls. He kills his own soul a hundred times.
Sometimes I find that misery is so vast that I am afraid of needing it.
Being someone is being one alone. Being someone is loneliness.
Sometimes it as though I were in hell and I do not grieve. I do not find anything to grieve over.
From what I awaited, came my habit of waiting.
There are dreams that need rest.
The confession of one man humbles all.
The shadows: some hide, others reveal.
You can owe nothing, if you give back its light to the sun.
He who does not fill his world with phantoms remains alone.
Yes, I’ll move away. I’d rather sorrow over your absence than over you.
When you made me into another, I left you with me.
I love you as you are, but do not tell me how that is.
When his eyes dimmed, I too saw a shadow.
Truth has very few friends and those few are suicides.
My self has been moving away from me. Today it is my farthest you.
Everything had been stripped of deceptions, that time. And that time I was afraid of everything.
We don’t forgive being as we are.
Only the wound speaks its own word.
My great day came and went, I do not know how. Because it did not pass through dawn when it came, nor through dusk when it went.