"Octavio Paz"の名言

Каждый читатель - тот же поэт, каждое стихотворение - любое другое. Ни минуты не стоя на месте, поэзия никуда не спешит. В разговоре каждая фраза предвосхищает следующую: у этой цепи есть начало и конец. В стихах первая фраза содержит последнюю, как последняя - первую. Поэзия - единственный способ противостоять линейному времени, так называемому прогрессу.

Стихи нельзя объяснить - только понять.

У влюбленного в безмолвие поэта есть одно спасение - речь.

Возвращение «Земную жизнь пройдя до половины», остановился я. И повернулся спиною к будущему: «там не ждут меня» - и пройденным уже путем пошел. Я вышел вон из ряда тех, кто испокон веков, обманываясь, ожидает, что выпадет счастливый случай, ключ повернется, истина откроется – откроются врата веков, и кто-то молвит: «Нет ни врат и ни веков». Я позади оставил улицы, и площади, и греческие статуи – в холодном свете утра, и только ветер был живым среди могил. За городом – поля, а за полями – ночь и пустыня: то сердце одинокое мое – ночь и пустыня. И в свете солнца камнем стал я, зеркалом и камнем. Затем – осталась позади пустыня – стал морем и над морем – черным небом, огромным камнем с полустертыми словами: «Нет звезд во мне». И вот – пришел. Врата разрушены, и ангел мирно дремлет. А за вратами – сад: густые кроны, дыхание камней, почти живых, магнолий сон глубокий, и свет – нагой среди стволов нарядных. Вода потоками-руками обнимает цветущий луг. И в центре – дерево и девочка-дитя; о, солнечный огонь ее волос! И нагота меня не тяготила: я был в воде и воздуху подобен. Укрытая сиянием зеленым древа, уснувшая в траве, она была – оставленное ветром белое перо. Ее поцеловать хотел я, но воды журчанье вдруг пробудило жажду, я склонился над зеркалом воды и на себя взглянул. И я увидел: рот, искаженный жаждой, мертвым был; о, старец алчущий, о, виноградная лоза, агония огня! Я наготу свою прикрыл. И тихо вышел. Смеялся ангел. И поднялся ветер, и мне глаза песком засыпал ветер. Песок и ветер – то мои слова; не мы живем, нас создает живыми время.

Beyond myself, somewhere, I wait for my arrival.

This is perhaps the most noble aim of poetry, to attach ourselves to the world around us, to turn desire into love, to embrace, finally what always evades us, what is beyond, but what is always there – the unspoken, the spirit, the soul.

Mineral cactai, quicksilver lizards in the adobe walls, the bird that punctures space, thirst, tedium, clouds of dust, impalpable epiphanies of wind. The pines taught me to talk to myself. In that garden I learnedto send myself off. Later there were no gardens.

because two bodies, naked and entwined, leap over time, they are invulnerable, nothing can touch them, they return to the source, there is no you, no I, no tomorrow, no yesterday, no names, the truth of two in a single body, a single soul, oh total being...

better to be stoned in the plaza than to turn the mill that squeezes out the juice of life, that turns eternity into empty hours, minutes into prisons, and time into copper coins and abstract shit

are they nothing at all, the cries of men? does nothing happen in time but time passing? -nothing happens, only the flickering eyelid of the great sun, hardly a movement, nothing, the unredeemable boundaries of time, the dead are all pinned down by their own dying, they cannot die again of another death, they are untouchable, locked in their gestures, and since their solitude and since their dying this only they can do: stare sightless at us, their death is simply the statue of their life, perpetual being and nothingness without end, for every moment is nothing without end, a king of fantasy regulates your pulse and your last gesture carves an impassive mask and lays that sculpture over your mobile face: we are the monument raised to an alien life, a life unlived, not lively, hardly ours.

The truth is that the history of Mexico is a history in the image of its geography: abrupt and tortuous. Each historical period is like a plateau surrounded by tall mountains and separated from the other plateaus by precipices and divides.

Yes, I am well aware that nature - or what we call nature: that totality of objects and processes that surrounds us and that alternately creates us and devours us - is neither our accomplice nor our confidant.

All of us, at some moment, have had a vision of our existence as something unique, untransferable and very precious. This revelation almost always takes place during adolescence.

Art for Duchamp, all the arts, obey the same law: meta-irony is inherent in their very spirit. It is an irony that destroys its own negation and, hence, returns in the affirmative.

In each verse, a decision awaits us, and we can't choose to close our eyes and let instinct work on its own. Poetic instinct consists of an alert tension.

Poems - crystallizations of the universal play of analogy, transparent objects which, as they reproduce the mechanism and the rotary motion of analogy, are waterspouts of new analogies.

In antiquity, a woman might be an object of worship or desire, but never of love.

Picasso is what is going to happen and what is happening; he is posterity and archaic time, the distant ancestor and our next-door neighbor. Speed permits him to be two places at once, to belong to all the centuries without letting go of the here and now.

For the Chinese, the Greeks, the Mayans, or the Egyptians, nature was a living totality, a creative being. For this reason, art, according to Aristotle, is imitation; the poet imitates the creative gesture of nature.

Little by little, not without astonishment, I rediscovered the great names of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, who had been the master thinkers of my grandfather and other Mexican liberals. They did no offer me a doctrine or a catechism: they were and they are a source, an inspiration.