Antonio Porchia (1886 – 1968)
Argentinian writer and poet.
Only the wound speaks its own word.
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.
When you made me into another, I left you with me.
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.
Everything had been stripped of deceptions, that time. And that time I was afraid of everything.
We don’t forgive being as we are.
Men and things rise, fall, move away, approach. Everything is a comedy of distances.
It is easier to pick it up fallen than not to let it fall. Let it fall and you will pick it up.
Whoever loves knowing why they love, doesn’t love.
Those who do not find a fountain through which to pour their tears, do not cry.
My name, far more than it names me, reminds me of my name.
All I know does not even help me to know it.
When I am asleep, I dream what I dream when I am awake. Its a continuous dream.
Among the superficial, if you are not one of them, one of them has to lead you by the hand.
He who holds me by a thread is not strong; the thread is strong.
Night is a world lit by itself.
What we pay for with our lives never costs too much.