You know how this is: if I lookat the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touchnear the firethe impalpable ashor the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sailtoward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Pablo NerudaAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer, Diplomat, Poet
- Nationality: chilean
- Born: July 12, 1904
- Died: September 23, 1973
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he fact people think that when you sell a lot of books you are not a serious writer is a great insult to the readership. I get a little angry when people try to say such a thing. There was a review of my last book in one American paper by a professor of Latin American studies and he attacked me personally for the sole reason that I sold a lot of books. That is unforgivable.
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Sometimes you find the panel, but it doesn’t open; sometimes it opens, and your gaze meets nothing but a mouse skeleton. But at least you’ve looked. That’s the real distinction between people: not between those who have secrets and those who don’t, but between those who want to know everything and those who don’t. This search is a sign of love I maintain.
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