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The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
Roberto Bolano
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Roberto Bolano
Age: 50 †
Born: 1953
Born: April 28
Died: 2003
Died: July 16
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Santiago
Chile
Ay
Like
Carnivorous
Sunset
Sky
Looked
Flower
More quotes by Roberto Bolano
I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.
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They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him.
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Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.
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Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better
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If you're going to say what you want to say, you're going to hear what you don't want to hear.
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The secret story is the one we'll never know, although we're living it from day to day, thinking we're alive, thinking we've got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn't matter.
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Every hundred feet the world changes
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In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats
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Literature + Illness = Illness
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Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it's knowledge and questions.
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We all have to die a bit every now and then and usually it's so gradual that we end up more alive than ever. Infinitely old and infinitely alive.
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Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.
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So everything lets us down, including curiosity and honesty and what we love best. Yes, said the voice, but cheer up, it's fun in the end.
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Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
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Reading is like thinking, like praying, like talking to a friend, like expressing your ideas, like listening to other people's ideas, like listening to music, like looking at the view, like taking a walk on the beach.
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Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn't clear ... was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.
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The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
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As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.
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We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?
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Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.
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