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

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way

than this: Where ‘I’ does not exist, nor ‘You’, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Now, on the road to freedom, I was pausing for a moment near Temuco and could hear the voice of the water that had taught me to sing.

Wall Street Journal 14 Nov 85

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

Wall Street Journal 14 Nov 85

Latin America is very fond of the word “hope.” We like to be called the “continent of hope.” Candidates for deputy, senator, president, call themselves “candidates of hope.” This hope is really something like a promise of heaven, an IOU whose payment is always being put off. It is put off until the next legislative campaign, until next year, until the next century.

Memoirs, ch. 11