Art is what remains of religion: the dance above the yawning abyss..

No one behind, no one ahead. The path the ancients cleared has closed. And the other path, everyone's path, easy and wide, goes nowhere. I am alone a….

Humankind is never what he is but the self he seeks..

Watching I watch myself, what I see is my creation as though entering through my eyes perception is conception into an eye more crystal clear ….

By diminishing the value of silence, publicity has also diminished that of language. The two are inseparable: knowing how to speak has always meant k….

Poetry is not truth, it is the resurrection of presences..

Self-discovery is above all the realization that we are alone: it is the opening of an impalpable, transparent wall-that of our consciousness-between….

Loving means getting rid of names..

Every moment is nothing without end..

Ruy-Sanchez's works of fiction are always amazing: adventure, poetry and intelligence in a new geometry of words... His writing has nerve and agility….

The ideal of a single civilization for everyone, implicit in the cult of progress and technique, impoverishes and mutilates us.

The North American system only wants to consider the positive aspects of reality. Men and women are subjected from childhood to an inexorable process….

Love is not a desire for beauty; it is a yearning for completion..

I sat at the foot of a huge tree, a statue of the night, and tried to make an inventory of all I had seen, heard, smelled, and felt: dizziness, horro….

Solitude is the profoundest fact.

When a society decays, it is language that is first to become gangrenous. As a result, social criticism begins with grammar and the re-establishing o….

Art is an invention of aesthetics, which in turn is an invention of philosophers... What we call art is a game..

Because two bodies, naked and entwined, leap over time, they are invulnerable, nothing can touch them, they return to the source. There is no you, no….

Without democracy freedom is a chimera.

Poetry, in the past, was the center of our society, but with modernity it has retreated to the outskirts. I think the exile of poetry is also the exi….

Enormous and solid but swaying, beaten by the wind but chained, murmur of a million leaves against my window. Riot of trees, surge of dark green soun….