Perhaps his tragedy is that he is the only normal writer left on earth -- and it is this that adds to his isolation and so too his so sense of guilt.
Â¿LE GUSTA ESTE JARDIN QUE ES SUYO? Â¡EVITE QUE SUS HIJOS LODESTRUYAN!
I want your life filling and stirring me. I want your happiness beneath my heart and your sorrows in my eyes and your peace in the fingers of my hand.
War is being declared tomorrow here so perhaps you can understand that I have been working under difficulties, but difficulties negligible compared with what others have to go through.
Muzzle a dog and he will bark out of the other end.
For a time they confronted each other like two mute unspeaking forts.
But my lord, Yvonne, surely you know by this time I can't get drunk however much I drink.
How shall the murdered man convince his assassin he will not haunt him.
What is man but a little soul holding up a corpse?
There was no mistaking, even in the uncertain light, the hand, half crabbed, half generous, and wholly drunken, of the Consul himself, the Greek e's, the flying buttresses of d's, the t's like lonely wayside crosses save where they crucified an entire word.
God, how pointless and empty the world is! Days filled with cheap and tarnished moments succeed each other, restless and haunted nights follow in bitter routine: the sun shines without brightness, and the moon rises without light.
How alike are the groans of love, to those of the dying.
What beauty can compare to that of a cantina in the early morning?
Long for me as I for you, forgetting, what will be inevitable, the long black aftermath of pain.
The howling pariah dogs, the cocks that herald dawn all night, the drumming, the moaning that will be found later white plumage huddled on telegraph wires in back gardens or fowl roosting in apple trees, the eternal sorrow that never sleeps of great Mexico.