A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don’t slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices.

Memoirs, ch. 11
tagged: money, reading

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More from Pablo Neruda

The darkness of a day elapsed,
of a day nourished with our sad blood.

There Is No Forgetting: Sonata, Residencia en la Tierra (1925-1935) (1935)

Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose

all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

A Dog Has Died

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

A Dog Has Died

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don’t now and never did lie to each other.