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

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.

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Tonight I Can Write

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