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They Could Read Him, They Could Study Him, They Could Pick Him Apart, But They Couldn't Laugh Or Be Sad With Him.

-Roberto Bolano

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They Could Read Him,

Roberto Bolano

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They Could Read Him, They Could Study Him, They Could Pick Him Apart, But They Couldn't Laugh Or Be Sad With Him.

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Of All The Islands He'd Visited, Two Stood Out. The Island Of The Past, He Said, Where The Only Time Was Past Time And The Inhabitants Were Bored And More Or Less Happy, But Where The Weight Of Illusion Was So Great That The Island Sank A Little Deeper Into The River Every Day. And The Island Of The Future, Where The Only Time Was The Future, And The Inhabitants Were Planners And Strivers, Such Strivers, Said Ulises, That They Were Likely To End Up Devouring One Another.

Dreams Fade With Morning Light, Never A Morn For Thee, Dreamer Of Dreams, Goodnight.

We Never Stop Reading, Although Every Book Comes To An End, Just As We Never Stop Living, Although Death Is Certain.

You Run Risks. That's The Plain Truth. You Run Risks And, Even In The Most Unlikely Places, You Are Subject To Destiny's Whims.

There's No Place On Earth With More Dumb Girls Per Square Foot Than A College In California.

It's Strange How Things Happen, Mauricio Silva, Known As The Eye, Always Tried To Escape From Violence Even At The Risk Of Being Considered A Coward, But The Violence, The Real Violence, Can't Be Escaped, At Least Not By Us, Born In Latin America In The 1950s, Those Of Us Who Were Around Twenty Years Old When Salvador Allende Died.

Drink Up, Boys, Drink Up And Don’t Worry, If We Finish This Bottle We’ll Go Down And Buy Another One. Of Course, It Won’t Be The Same As The One We’ve Got Now, But It’ll Still Be Better Than Nothing. Ah, What A Shame They Don’t Make Los Suicidas Mezcal Anymore, What A Shame That Time Pases, Don’t You Think? What A Shame That We Die, And Get Old, And Everything Good Goes Galloping Away From Us.

There Is A Time For Reciting Poems And A Time For Fists.

Of What Is Lost, Irretrievably Lost, All I Wish To Recover Is The Daily Availability Of My Writing, Lines Capable Of Grasping Me By The Hair And Lifting Me Up When I'm At The End Of My Strength. (significant, Said The Foreigner.) Odes To The Human And The Divine. Let My Writing Be Like The Verses Of By Leopardi That Daniel Biga Recited On A Nordic Bridge To Gird Himself With Courage.

Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did, I’d Rather Not Talk About It, Because I Didn’t Understand It.

Every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me.

Being Alone Makes Us Stronger. That’s The Honest Truth. But It’s Cold Comfort, Since Even If I Wanted Company No One Will Come Near Me Anymore.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.

For Her, Reading Was Directly Linked To Pleasure, Not To Knowledge Or Enigmas Or Constructions Or Verbal Labyrinths.

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.

When I Was Done Traveling, I Returned Convinced Of One Thing: We're Nothing.

I Steal Into Their Dreams," He Said. "i Steal Into Their Most Shameful Thoughts, I'm In Every Shiver, Every Spasm Of Their Souls, I Steal Into Their Hearts, I Scrutinize Their Most Fundamental Beliefs, I Scan Their Irrational Impulses, Their Unspeakable Emotions, I Sleep In Their Lungs During The Summer And Their Muscles During The Winter, And All Of This I Do Without The Least Effort, Without Intending To, Without Asking Or Seeking It Out, Without Constraints, Driven Only By Love And Devotion.

No One Pays Attention To These Killings, But The Secret Of The World Is Hidden In Them.

Reading Is Pleasure And Happiness To Be Alive Or Sadness To Be Alive And Above All It's Knowledge And Questions.

The Moon Is Fat And The Night Air Is So Pure It Seems Edible.

I’m Seventeen Years Old, My Name Is Juan García Madero, And I’m In My First Semester Of Law School. I Wanted To Study Literature, Not Law, But My Uncle Insisted, And In The End I Gave In. I’m An Orphan, And Someday I’ll Be A Lawyer. That’s What I Told My Aunt And Uncle, And Then I Shut Myself In My Room And Cried All Night.

The American Mirror, Said The Voice, The Sad American Mirror Of Wealth And Poverty And Constant Useless Metamorphosis, The Mirror That Sails And Whose Sails Are Pain.

As Time Goes By, As Time Goes By, The Whip-crack Of The Years, The Precipice Of Illusions, The Ravine That Swallows Up All Human Endeavour Except The Struggle To Survive.

I'd Obviously Never Heard Of The Group, But My Ignorance In Literary Matters Is To Blame For That (every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me).

Coincidence Obeys No Laws And If It Does We Don't Know What They Are. Coincidence, If You'll Permit Me The Simile, Is Like The Manifestation Of God At Every Moment On Our Planet. A Senseless God Making Senseless Gestures At His Senseless Creatures. In That Hurricane, In That Osseous Implosion, We Find Communion.

Then He Went Out Without Touching Anything And Put His Arm Around Ingeborg, And Like That, With Their Arms Around Each Other, They Returned To The Village While The Whole Past Of The Universe Fell On Their Heads.

Reading Is Like Thinking, Like Praying, Like Talking To A Friend, Like Expressing Your Ideas, Like Listening To Other People's Ideas, Like Listening To Music, Like Looking At The View, Like Taking A Walk On The Beach.

Literature Is A Vast Forest And The Masterpieces Are The Lakes, The Towering Trees Or Strange Trees, The Lovely, Eloquent Flowers, The Hidden Caves, But A Forest Is Also Made Up Of Ordinary Trees, Patches Of Grass, Puddles, Clinging Vines, Mushrooms, And Little Wildflowers.

That's A Pretty Story,' Said Afanasievna As She Let Go Of Ansky's Genitals. 'a Pity I'm Too Old And Have Seen To Much To Believe It.' It Has Nothing To Do With Belief,' Said Ansky, 'it Has To Do With Understanding, And Then Changing.

Literature + Illness = Illness

Metaphors Are Our Way Of Losing Ourselves In Semblances Or Treading Water In A Sea Of Seeming.

The Sky, At Sunset, Looked Like A Carnivorous Flower.

When People Read His Books They Have An Uncontrollable Desire To Hang The Author In The Town Square. I Can’t Think Of A Higher Honor For A Writer.

Death, In The Eastern Tradition, Was Only A Passage. What Wasn't Clear ... Was Toward What Place, What Reality, That Passage Led.

So Everything Lets Us Down, Including Curiosity And Honesty And What We Love Best. Yes, Said The Voice, But Cheer Up, It's Fun In The End.

I'll Tell You, My Friends: It's All In The Nerves. The Nerves That Tense And Relax As You Approach The Edges Of Companionship And Love. The Razor-sharp Edges Of Companionship And Love.

The Secret Story Is The One We'll Never Know, Although We're Living It From Day To Day, Thinking We're Alive, Thinking We've Got It All Under Control And The Stuff We Overlook Doesn't Matter.

Poetry Is The One Thing That Isn't Contaminated, The One Thing That Isn't Part Of The Game.

One Should Read Borges More.

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.

The Truth Is We Never Stop Being Children, Terrible Children Covered In Sores And Knotty Veins And Tumors And Age Spots, But Ultimately Children, In Other Words We Never Stop Clinging To Life Because We Are Life.

Every Hundred Feet The World Changes

Reading Is More Important Than Writing.

If You're Going To Say What You Want To Say, You're Going To Hear What You Don't Want To Hear.

Bright Colours In The West, Giant Butterflies Dancing As Night Crept Like A Cripple Toward The East.

Nothing Good Ever Comes Of Love. What Comes Of Love Is Always Something Better

Something Better

Nothing Is Ever Behind Us.

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.

I Kept Having Dreams All Night. I Thought They Were Touching Me With Their Fingers. But Dreams Don't Have Fingers, They Have Fists, So It Must Have Been Scorpions.

You Have To Know How To Look Even If You Don't Know What You're Looking For.

We're Artists Too, But We Do A Good Job Hiding It, Don't We?

In Some Lost Fold Of The Past, We Wanted To Be Lions And We're No More Than Castrated Cats

In The Current Socio-political Climate, He Said To Himself, Committing Suicide Is Absurd And Redundant. Better To Become An Undercover Poet.

The Diseased, Anyway, Are More Interesting Than The Healthy. The Words Of The Diseased, Even Those Who Can Manage Only A Murmur, Carry More Weight Than Those Of The Healthy. Then, Too, All Healthy People Will In The Future Know Disease. That Sense Of Time, Ah, The Diseased Man’s Sense Of Time, What Treasure Hidden In A Desert Cave. Then, Too The Diseased Truly Bite, Whereas The Healthy Pretend To Bite But Really Only Snap At The Air. Then, Too, Then, Too, Then, Too.

I'm An Educated Man, The Prisons I Know Are Subtle Ones.

I Decided To Tell The Truth Even If It Meant Being Pointed At.

Telling The Truth

They Could Read Him, They Could Study Him, They Could Pick Him Apart, But They Couldn't Laugh Or Be Sad With Him.

We Interpret Life At Moments Of The Deepest Desperation.

Jesus Is The Masterpiece. The Thieves Are Minor Works. Why Are They There? Not To Frame The Crucifixion, As Some Innocent Souls Believe, But To Hide It.

We All Have To Die A Bit Every Now And Then And Usually It's So Gradual That We End Up More Alive Than Ever. Infinitely Old And Infinitely Alive.

If I Were To Say What I Really Think I Would Be Arrested Or Shut Away In A Lunatic Asylum. Come On, I Am Sure That It Would Be The Same For Everyone.

Lunatic Asylums

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

What Twisted People We Are. How Simple We Seem, Or At Least Pretend To Be In Front Of Others, And How Twisted We Are Deep Down. How Paltry We Are And How Spectacularly We Contort Ourselves Before Our Own Eyes, And The Eyes Of Others...and All For What? To Hide What? To Make People Believe What?

Literature Is The Product Of A Strange Rain Of Blood, Sweat, Semen, And Tears.

For A Moment The Two Of Them Looked At Each Other, Wordless, As If They Were Asleep And Their Dreams Had Converged On Common Ground, A Place Where Sound Was Alien.

If Life Is Misery, Why Do We Endure It?

The World Is Alive And No Living Thing Has Any Remedy. That Is Our Fortune.

When You Die Of Sorrow It's As If You've Broken All The Bones In Your Body, Bruised Yourself All Over, Cracked Your Skull. That's Sorrow.

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

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