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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.

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
Wasn
Clear
Death
Place
Passage
Reality
Eastern
Passages
Tradition
Toward

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The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
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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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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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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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Reading is more important than writing.
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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 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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Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better
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We're artists too, but we do a good job hiding it, don't we?
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I'd obviously never heard of the group, but my ignorance in literary matters is to blame for that (every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me).
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Coincidence obeys no laws and if it does we don't know what they are. Coincidence, if you'll permit me the simile, is like the manifestation of God at every moment on our planet. A senseless God making senseless gestures at his senseless creatures. In that hurricane, in that osseous implosion, we find communion.
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When you die of sorrow it's as if you've broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That's sorrow.
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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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Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.
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The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.
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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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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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Every hundred feet the world changes
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Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.
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