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In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats

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
Lions
Cats
Cat
Lost
Past
Wanted
Castrated
Fold
Folds

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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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There's no place on earth with more dumb girls per square foot than a college in California.
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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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Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.
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The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.
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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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The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
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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.
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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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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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Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better
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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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Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.
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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 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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Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.
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We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?
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Every hundred feet the world changes
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When people read his books they have an uncontrollable desire to hang the author in the town square. I can’t think of a higher honor for a writer.
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