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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Tools
Victory
Full
Human
Humans
Book
Touches
Without
Shirts
Men
Loneliness

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When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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I move in the university of the waves.
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He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.
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I love you only because it's you the one I love I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
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Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.
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Love! Love until the night collapses!
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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
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Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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In the distance someone is singing.
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Laughter is the language of the soul.
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.
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Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .
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I ask permission to be like everybody else,like the rest of the world and what's more, like anybody else:I beg you, with all my heart,if we are talking about me, since we are talking about me,please resist blasting the trumpet during my visitand resign yourselves to my quiet absence.
Pablo Neruda