Antonio Machado Quotes

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road-- Only wakes upon the sea. Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt -- O, marvelous error -- That there was a beehive here inside my heart And the golden bees were making white combs And sweet honey from all my failures.

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Hoy es siempre todavía, toda la vida es ahora. Y ahora, ahora es el momento de cumplir las promesas que nos hicimos. Porque ayer no lo hicimos, porque mañana es tarde. Ahora.

Death is something we shouldn't fear because, while we are, death isn't, and when death is, we aren't.

Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar. (Walker, there is no road. The road is made as you walk.)

I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that a spring was breaking out in my heart. I said: Along which secret aqueduct, Oh water, are you coming to me, water of a new life that I have never drunk? Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures. Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that a fiery sun was giving light inside my heart. It was fiery because I felt warmth as from a hearth, and sun because it gave light and brought tears to my eyes. Last night as I slept, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that it was God I had here inside my heart.

Caminante son tus huellas El camino nada más; caminante no hay camino se hace camino al andar.

I. Don't trace out your profile-- forget your side view-- all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren't.

In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.

Look for your other half Who walks along next to you, And tends to be what you aren’t.

Mankind owns four things That are no good at sea: Rudder, anchor, oars, And the fear of going down.

Hoy es siempre todavía.

My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don’t put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there lies the fountain of youth in which my heart is continually bathing.

The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

Españolito que vienes al mundo te guarde Dios. Una de las dos Españas ha de helarte el corazón.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

This Narcissus of ours Can’t see his face in the mirror Because he has become the mirror.

He (Antonio Machado) was old, weary and ill, and he no longer believed in Franco's defeat. He wrote 'This is the end; any day now Barcelona will fall. For the strategists, for the politicians, for the historians, it is all clear: we have lost the war. But in human terms, I am not so sure. Perhaps we have won.

But don't hunt for dissonance: There is no such thing; People dance to all tunes.

No my soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its clear eyes open, far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

In my solitude I have seen things very clearly That were not true —Antonio Machado, 1983

And when the day arrives for the final voyage and the ship of no return is set to sail, you’ll find me aboard, traveling light, almost naked, like the children of the sea.

Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace "Camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.

I’ve caught a glimpse of him in dreams: expert hunter of himself, every minute in ambush.

El ojo que ves no es ojo porque tú lo veas, es ojo porque te ve.

Mataron a Federico cuando la luz asomaba. / El pelotón de verdugos no osó mirarle la casra. / Todos cerraron los ojos; / rezaron: ¡ni Dios te salva! / Muerto cayó Federico / -sangre en la frente y plomo en las entrañas- / Que fue en Granada el crimen / sabed -¡pobre Granada-, en su Granada

A Spanish poet, Antonio Machado, once said: ‘Dijiste media verdad. Dirán que mientes dos veces si dices la otra mitad.’” “Translated means…” “You told a half-truth. They’ll say you lie twice when you tell the other half.

Nunca perseguí la gloria ni dejar en la memoria de los hombres mi canción; yo amo los mundos sutiles, ingrávidos y gentiles como pompas de jabón. Me gusta verlos pintarse de sol y grana, volar bajo el cielo azul, temblar súbitamente y quebrarse.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.

Estos días azules y este sol de infancia

Bueno es saber que los vasos nos sirven para beber; lo malo es que no sabemos para qué sirve la sed.

I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

I Have Walked Down Many Roads by Antonio Machado translated from the Spanish by Don Share I have walked down many roads and cleared many paths; I have navigated a hundred oceans and anchored off a hundred shores. All over, I have seen caravans of sadness, pompous and melancholy men drunk with black shadows, and defrocked pedants who stare, keep quiet, and think they know, because they don’t drink wine in the neighborhood bars. Bad people who go around polluting the earth . . . And all over, I have seen people who dance or play, when they can, and work their four handfuls of land. If they turn up someplace, they never ask where they are. When they travel, they ride on the backs of old mules, and don’t know how to hurry, not even on holidays. When there’s wine, they drink wine; when there’s no wine, they drink cool water. These are good people, who live, work, get by, and dream; and on a day like all the others they lie down under the earth.

Hope says: one day you will see her, if you will only wait. Despair says: all you have left of her is your bitterness. Beat, heart…The earth has not swallowed everything.

Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.

¡Alegría infantil en los rincones de las ciudades muertas!... ¡Y algo nuestro de ayer, que todavía vemos vagar por estas calles viejas!

The eye you see is not an eye because you see it; it is an eye because it sees you.

Pathmaker, there is no path. We make the path by walking." Caminante, no hay camino.... Se hace camino al andar.

Like an abandoned dog who cannot find a smell or a track and roams along the roads, with no road, like the child who in a night of the fair gets lost among the crowd, and the air is dusty, and the candles fluttering,--astounded, his heart weighed down by music and by pain; that’s how I am, drunk, sad by nature, a mad and lunar guitarist, a poet, and an ordinary man lost in dreams, searching constantly for God among the mists.

Todo pasa y todo queda, / Pero lo nuestro es pasar, / Pasar haciendo caminos,/ Caminos sobre el mar.

Ayer soñé que veía a Dios y que a Dios hablaba; y soñé que Dios me oía... Después soñé que soñaba.

Dream-travelers, there is no path, paths are made by dreaming.

El hombre sólo es rico en hipocresía.

Se miente más de la cuenta por falta de fantasía: también la verdad se inventa.

Todo necio confunde valor y precio

the poem by Antonio Machado, “there is no road, the road is made by walking

Ya hay un español que quiere vivir y a vivir empieza, entre una España que muere y otra España que bosteza. Españolito que vienes al mundo te guarde Dios. una de las dos Españas ha de helarte el corazón.

Traveller, your footprints Are the path and nothing more; Traveller, there is no path, The path is made by walking. By walking the path is made And when you look back You’ll see a road Never to be trodden again.

Will the spellbound world die with you" Will the spellbound world die with you where memory hangs on to clean breaths in life, the white shadow of a first love, a voice that struck your heart, the hand you wanted to grab in dreams, and every love that fell in the soul down to the bottom sky? Will your world die with you, the old life you remade in your way? Have the anvils and crucibles of your soul been working for dust and wind?

Anoche cuando dormía Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que una fontana fluía dentro de mi corazòn. Di: ¿por qué acequia escondida, agua, vienes hasta mí, manantial de nueva vida en donde nunca bebí? Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que una colmena tenía dentro de mi corazòn; y las doradas abejas iban fabricando en él, con las amarguras viejas, blanca cera y dulce miel. Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que un sol ardiente lucía dentro de mi corazòn. Era ardiente porque daba calores de rojo hogar, y era sol porque alumbraba y porque hacía llorar. Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que era Dios lo que tenía dentro de mi corazòn.

Will your world die with you, the old life you remade in your way? Have the anvils and crucibles of your soul been working for dust and wind?

Huye de la ciudad... Pobres maldades, misérrimas virtudes y quehaceres de chulos aburridos, y ruindades de ociosos mercaderes.

Huye de la ciudad. ¡El tedio urbano! — ¡carne triste y espíritu villano!—.

Tras el vivir y el soñar, está lo que más importa: despertar.

When the I AM THAT I AM made nothing And rested, which rest it certainly deserved, Night now accompanied day, and man Had his friend in the absence of the woman.

De toda la memoria, solo vale el don preclaro de evocar los sueños.

Life is long and art a toy

What does one day matter! Yesterday stands poised to face tomorrow, tomorrow faces the infinite:" -from "The Iberian God

your footsteps are the road, wanderer, and nothing else there is no road, it is born of walking and looking back, you gaze upon the path to which you never shall return there is no road, wanderer only wakes upon the sea

Tiene el padre entre las cejas un ceño que le aborrasca el rostro, un tachón sombrío como la huella de un hacha. Soñando está con sus hijos, que sus hijos lo apuñalan, y cuando despierta mira que es cierto lo que soñaba.

XXIX Al andar se hace camino y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.   Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.

Mourn me with your efforts, with your hopes. Try simply to be good, to be what I have been among you: spirit. Live, life doesn't stop, the dead will die, the shadows pass; a man takes what he leaves, and one who has lived, lives on." -from "To Don Francisco Giner de los Rios

Caminante, son tus huellas el camino y nada más; Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace el camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino sino estelas en la mar.” Traveler, your footprints are the only road, nothing else. Traveler, there is no road; you make your own path as you walk. As you walk, you make your own road, and when you look back you see the path you will never travel again. Traveler, there is no road; only a ship's wake on the sea. Translated by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney

always fugitive, always near always concealed, always disdainful always leaving, always untouched always in black, always dreaming always the bitter flower always the night, always concealed always fugitive, always caged always your face always the bitter flower of your lips, always your bed always near, always fleeing always waiting, always waiting always calling to you always the night deepens always the night always fugitive, always near

طفولتي ذكرياتُ بيتٍ في إشبيليا وساحةٍ بأشجار الليمون اليانعةِ تحت الشمس ، شبابي عشرون عاماً في أراضي كاستيليا لم أعش فيه شيئاً مذكورا لم أغر النساء مثل مينارا ولم أعشق مثل روميو فأنتم تعلمون كيف كنتُ أرتدي ملابسي الرديئة لكن سهماً من كيوبيد جاء نحوي فوجدت النساء في صدري بيتاً في جسدي يجري دمٌ من سلالة التمرد لكن شعري يشرب من ماء الأنهار الهادئة الصافية لا تقولوا كان رجلا ً يصنع الأفكار ولا كان يدّعي الحكمة قولوا فقط كان رجلا ً طيبا

Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que una fontana fluía dentro de mi corazòn. Di: ¿por qué acequia escondida, agua, vienes hasta mí, manantial de nueva vida en donde nunca bebí? Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que una colmena tenía dentro de mi corazòn; y las doradas abejas iban fabricando en él, con las amarguras viejas, blanca cera y dulce miel. Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que un sol ardiente lucía dentro de mi corazòn. Era ardiente porque daba calores de rojo hogar, y era sol porque alumbraba y porque hacía llorar. Anoche cuando dormía soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!, que era Dios lo que tenía dentro de mi corazòn.

While the burning fish is tracing his arc near the cypress, beneath the highest blue of all, and the blind boy flies away in the white stone, and the ivory poem of the green cicada beats and reverberates in the elm, let us give honor to the Lord— the black mark of his good hand— who has arranged for silence in all this noise. Honor to the god of distance and of absence, ff the anchor in the sea—the open sea… He frees us from the world—it’s everywhere— he opens roads for us to walk on. With our cup of darkness filled to the brim, with our heart that always knows some hunger, let us give honor to the Lord who created the zero and carved our thought out of the block of faith.

Last night, as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvellous error!— that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white cones and sweet honey from my old failures. Antonio Machado, “Last Night” (translated by Robert Bly) I once heard someone ask for the definition of adult. I can’t remember where I was, or who the speaker was who answered the question, but I’ll never forget the answer: “Adult means choice.” As children, most of us had little or no say in most matters. My generation was taught that children should be seen and not heard. We were told to “do as I say, not as I do.” We didn’t have a “vote” in family matters because we were “just children.” Picture this scenario if you will. Five-year-old Jerry has just received his umpteenth whipping or scolding. He turns to his parents and says, “You know, Mom and Dad, I choose not to be abused anymore. I’ll be taking the car keys, withdrawing some money from our joint account, and moving to Florida to live with Grandma and Grandpa. When you both start acting like adults, give me a call, and we’ll discuss the conditions of my return. We’ll see if we can settle on a mutual arrangement where you two stay adult as much of the time as possible, and I’ll be a kid who learns how to make healthy choices by being disciplined instead of punished. We’ll negotiate how you will set healthy boundaries so I can learn to do the same. For now, I’ll be seeing you. Don’t forget to write. And don’t forget to read John Lee’s book on regression. I’m too young, but you’re not.” As children, we did not have the choice of laying down the law for our frequently regressing parents. But as adults we can certainly choose to draw our boundaries and express our needs in all of our relationships as adults—not only with our parents, but also with our spouses, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances.

In the landscape of my native land, a stranger in my own fields, --I had a homeland where the Duero flows between gray cliffs and the ghosts of ancient oaks, there in Castile, mystic and warlike, graceful Castile, humble and boastful, Castile of arrogance and power, in the fields of Andalusia where I was born, I long to sing! My childhood memories are here, images of palm trees and sun against a golden brilliance, distant bell towers with storks, city streets without women under an indigo sky, deserted swuares where blazing orange trees ripen with round vermillon fruit, and in a shady garden, the dusty branches of a lemon tree, pale yellow lemons reflected in the clear water of the fountains. The scent of lilies and carnations, pungent odor of basil and mint. images of gloomy olive groves under a torrid sun that blinds and dazes, winding blue mountain ranges under the red glow of an immense afternoon; but if the thread that links memory to the heart is missing, the anchor to the shore, these memories are soulless. In their ragged dress, they are remnants of memory, castoffs the mind drags along. One day, anointed with light from below, our virginal bodies will return to their ancient shore.

Cuatro principios a tener en cuenta: Lo contrario es también frecuente. No basta mover para renovar. No basta renovar para mejorar. No hay nada que sea absolutamente empeorable

إنّ العين التي ترينها، ليست عينا لأنك ترينها، إنّها عين لأنها تراك .

Men has always wasted immense amounts of time reading and showering. How many trips, how many apartments, how many walks in woods, how many cashmere suits would Antonio have made if not for the obligations of the shower e Machado de Assis!

Pero como en los tiempos más recientes, las mujeres no suelen ahorrar y, como toda mala pagadora, tiene más deseos que dinero; al hombre le falta mucho por aguantar; allá donde mira encuentra deudas. Lo que puede reunir, ella lo gasta, en su cuerpo o en su amante; y también come mejor y bebe más con el miserable ejército de galanteadores. Esto aumenta en mí el ansia de oro: soy masculino, soy el afán.

Hoy es siempre todavía. Incluso después de hoy sigue siendo siempre todavía.

Pero las ideas del poeta no son categorías formales, cápsulas lógicas, sino directas intuiciones del ser que deviene, de su propio existir; son, pues, temporales, nunca elementos ácronos, puramente lógicos. El poeta profesa, más o menos conscientemente, una metafísica existencialista, en la cual el tiempo alcanza un valor absoluto. Inquietud, angustia, temores, resignación, esperanza, impaciencia que el poeta canta, son signos del tiempo y, al par, revelaciones del ser en la conciencia humana

Sólo recuerdo la emoción de las cosas, y se me olvida todo lo demás; muchas son las lagunas de mi memoria.

(...) cuenta Alfonso Reyes que Antonio Machado masticaba los libros hasta que quedaban reducidos a una mariposa de alas redondeadas. Son variaciones del amor.

Este nuevo pensar, o pensar poético, es pensar cualificador. No es, ni mucho menos, un retorno al caos sensible de la animalidad; porque tiene sus normas, no menos rígidas que las del pensamiento homogeneizador, aunque son muy otras. Este pensar se da entre realidades, no entre sombras; entre intuiciones, no entre conceptos.

el movimiento implica persistencia del móvil en lugares distintos y en momentos sucesivos; y un cambio discontinuo, con intervalos vacíos, que implican aniquilamiento del móvil, es impensable también. Del no ser al ser no hay tránsito posible, y la síntesis de ambos conceptos es inaceptable en toda lógica que pretenda ser, al par, ontología, porque no responde a realidad alguna.

Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. VER MÁS FRASES FAMOSAS

¿cómo un ser maldito y derrotado puede ser Señor, Salvador, Hijo de Dios? Hoy continúa siendo un escándalo. Nuestra mentalidad queda excelentemente descrita por el poeta Antonio Machado: «No puedo cantar, ni quiero, / a ese Jesús del madero / sino al que anduvo en el mar». Nos cuesta aceptar que Dios acompaña silenciosamente el sufrimiento humano. En ocasiones nos resistimos y tendemos a deprimirnos cuando sufrimos en nuestra carne personal o pastoral esa «impotencia silenciosa» de Dios. Y, sin embargo, Dios no nos abandona nunca; tal «impotencia» no significa abandono.

he had made friends with numerous intellectuals and poets, among them Federico Garcia Lorca—murdered by the Francoists—and Antonio Machado, who died in a town close to the French border during the Retreat.

La imagen, tras el vidrio de equívoco reflejo, surge o se apaga como daguerrotipo viejo. Suena en la calle sólo el ruido de tu paso; se extinguen lentamente los ecos del ocaso.

Pregunté a la tarde de abril que moría: ¿Al fin la alegría se acerca a mi casa? La tarde de abril sonrió: La alegría pasó por tu puerta —y luego, sombría: Pasó por tu puerta. Dos veces no pasa.

Una tarde parda y fría de invierno. Los colegiales estudian. Monotonía de la lluvia en los cristales.

así voy yo, borracho melancólico, guitarrista lunático, poeta, y pobre hombre en sueños, siempre buscando a Dios entre la niebla.

Es mediodía. Un parque. Invierno. Blancas sendas; simétricos montículos y ramas esqueléticas.   Bajo el invernadero, naranjos en maceta, y en su tonel, pintado de verde, la palmera.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. (Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.)1 —Antonio Machado (1875–1939) This

Por estos campos de la tierra mía, bordados de olivares polvorientos, voy caminando solo, triste, cansado, pensativo y viejo.

Los caminitos blancos se cruzan y se alejan, buscando los dispersos caseríos del valle y de la sierra. Caminos de los campos... ¡Ay, ya no puedo caminar con ella!

La humanidad posee cuatro cosas que no son útiles en el mar: Timones, anclas, remos y el temor de hundirse.

En cuestiones de cultura y de saber, sólo se pierde lo que se guarda; sólo se gana lo que se da” –Antonio Machado Ruiz

في ساعةِ اللقاء الوهمي حين يكسر المنحدرُ قوسَ القزح في الريح ويتصدع حزنه على ظهر الجبل ِ الشمسُ والأجراسُ في أبراجها القديمة فيا لهذه العشية الهادئة والمنعشة ويا لهذا المساء الطفولي الذي أحبه شاعرك ويا لهذا النهار… نهار الصبا أيام كنت ِ جسدًا بلون الوردِ على الشاطئ

يغدق القمرُ بخيوط من نور ينشر الفضة، في الأحلامِ، على النوافذ أما أنا فأمشي حزينا في المتاهات…