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Then he went out without touching anything and put his arm around Ingeborg, and like that, with their arms around each other, they returned to the village while the whole past of the universe fell on their heads.
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
Arms
Went
Universe
Around
Returned
Past
Touching
Anything
Village
Without
Heads
Whole
Fell
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Being alone makes us stronger. That’s the honest truth. But it’s cold comfort, since even if I wanted company no one will come near me anymore.
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Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
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Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.
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The truth is we never stop being children, terrible children covered in sores and knotty veins and tumors and age spots, but ultimately children, in other words we never stop clinging to life because we are life.
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There's no place on earth with more dumb girls per square foot than a college in California.
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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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If I were to say what I really think I would be arrested or shut away in a lunatic asylum. Come on, I am sure that it would be the same for everyone.
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I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.
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You have to know how to look even if you don't know what you're looking for.
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Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wildflowers.
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That's a pretty story,' said Afanasievna as she let go of Ansky's genitals. 'A pity I'm too old and have seen to much to believe it.' It has nothing to do with belief,' said Ansky, 'it has to do with understanding, and then changing.
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The American mirror, said the voice, the sad American mirror of wealth and poverty and constant useless metamorphosis, the mirror that sails and whose sails are pain.
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Every hundred feet the world changes
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The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
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The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
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Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better
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You run risks. That's the plain truth. You run risks and, even in the most unlikely places, you are subject to destiny's whims.
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The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.
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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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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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