Quote

Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing my grave will be the fathomless air my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite.

Jorge Luis Borges

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Jorge Luis Borges
Age: 86 †
Born: 1899
Born: August 24
Died: 1986
Died: March 26
Librarian
Literary Critic
Poet
Screenwriter
Translator
Writer
Buenos Ayres
Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges
Chorche Louis Borches
Jorge Luis Borges Acevedo
Horhe Luis Borhes
J. L. Borges
H. Bustos Domecq
Khorkhe Luyis Borkhes
Borges
Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo
Dead
Decay
Fall
Grave
Fathomless
Hands
Graves
Railing
Body
Throw
Dissolve
Lack
Generated
Infinite
Endlessly
Air
Pious
Wind
Sink

More quotes by Jorge Luis Borges

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I have used the philosophers' ideas for my own private literary purposes, but I don't think that I'm a thinker. I suppose that my thinking has been done for me by Berkeley, by Hume, by Schopenhauer, by Mauthner perhaps.
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I foresee that man will resign himself each day to new abominations, and soon that only bandits and soldiers will be left...
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The worst labyrinth is not that intricate form that can entrap us forever, but a single and precise straight line
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His life, measured in space and time, will take up a mere few lines, which my ignorance will abbreviate further.
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The thought came over me that never would one full and absolute moment, containing all the others, justify my life, that all of my instants would be provisional phases, annihilators of the past turned to face the future, and that beyond the episodic, the present, the circumstantial, we were nobody.
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You have wakened not out of sleep, but into a prior dream, and that dream lies within another, and so on, to infinity, which is the number of grains of sand. The path that you are to take is endless, and you will die before you have truly awakened.
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I don't think esthetic schools are important. What is important is the use that is made of them, or whatever the individual writer does.
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A . . . poet is a discoverer rather than an inventor.
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Time broadens the scope of verses and I know of some which, like music, are everything for all men.
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Poets, like the blind, can see in the dark.
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What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose?
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We have stopped believing in progress. What progress that is !
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The two important facts I should say, are emotion, and then words arising from emotion. I don't think you can write in an emotionless way. If you attempt it, the result is artificial. I don't like that kind of writing. I think that if a poem is really great, you should think of it as having written itself despite the author. It should flow.
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The mathematical sciences wield their particular language made of digits and signs, no less subtle than any other.
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Chang Tzu tells us of a persevering man who after three laborious years mastered the art of dragon-slaying. For the rest of his days, he had not a single opportunity to test his skills.
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May Heaven exist, even if my place is Hell.
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What man of us has never felt, walking through the twilight or writing down a date from his past, that he has lost something infinite?
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I ask of any God, of any gods, that if they give immortality, I hope to be granted oblivion also.
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What will die with me the day I die? What pathetic or frail image will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a bay horse in a vacant lot on the corner of Sarrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?
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I saw a sunset in Queretaro that seemed to reflect the color of a rose in Bengal.
Jorge Luis Borges