Hayes Quotes

Remember, you have been criticizing yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. Try approving of yourself and see what happens.

You have the power to heal your life, and you need to know that. We think so often that we are helpless, but we're not. We always have the power of our minds…Claim and consciously use your power.

Calling it a simple schoolgirl crush was like saying a Rolls-Royce was a vehicle with four wheels, something like a hay-wagon. She did not giggle wildly and blush when she saw him, nor did she chalk his name on trees or write it on the walls of the Kissing Bridge. She simply lived with his face in her heart all the time, a kind of sweet, hurtful ache. She would have died for him..

Las cicatrices son muy importantes, hay que lucirlas con orgullo, porque cada una, pequeña o grande, cuenta una historia, tan pequeña o grande como quieras.

nobody’s ever been arrested for a murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.

Mi cabeza es un laberinto oscuro. A veces hay como relámpagos que iluminan algunos corredores. Nunca termino de saber por qué hago ciertas cosas.

I'm probably half in love with a boy I don't really like.

Lo qué uno quiere de verdad, es lo que está hecho para uno; entonces hay que tomarlo, o intentar: En eso se te puede ir la Vida, pero es una vida mucho mejor…

As she always did on any really important day, Penelope Hayes wore red.

This isn't a crush, it's obsession.You are never not in my thoughts. Your scent carries across a room and paralyzes me with longing. I don't want to hold your hand. Part of me wants to set you on fire and hold you while the flame consumes us both, to eat your heart so I know that only I possess it entirely.

Caminante, no hay puentes, se hace puentes al andar. (Voyager, there are no bridges, one builds them as one walks.)

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.

Paying alimony is like feeding hay to a dead horse.

Hay ausencias que representan un verdadero triunfo

La gente le tiene muchísimo más miedo a las palabras que a los cañones. Las palabras han hecho revoluciones, puentes, caminos. Han logrado que la gente se enamore o se odie para siempre. Hay palabras grandes como monocotiledónea o gatroenterólogo y pequeñitas pero poderosas como paz. Importantes como justicia, imprescindibles como vida, valiosas como sueño, muy poco significativas como dinero... Lo importante es cómo se usan y qué se quiere decir cuando se usan.

I am in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing.

If you are about to tell me you are a vampire that glitters in the sunshine, I will--

Do you think it’s easy for me? No, I don’t remember you. I don’t remember holding you or talking to you or falling in love with you—but I walk around with a giant hole in my heart all the time. I feel your absence every second of the day. It aches and nothing soothes it. Losing you is bad enough, but I don’t even get the comfort of remembering that I had you once. -Haden

-¿Hay algo que no sepas hacer? -¡No! Puedes tomarme tranquilamente por un Dios.

I have noticed that the Universe loves Gratitude. The more Grateful you are, the more goodies you get

Cuando algo suena terrible es porque se está diciendo con la intención de que suene terrible. Por eso hay que pensar antes de decir las cosas y nunca dejar de decir lo que se piensa.

Every thought we think is creating our future.

You've been criticising yourself for years and it hasn't worked. Try approving of yourself and see what happens.

If you want to be free, all you have to do is let go.

A mí me cuesta ser cariñoso, inclusive en la vida amorosa. Siempre doy menos de lo que tengo. Mi estilo de querer es ése, un poco reticente, reservando, el máximo sólo para las grandes ocasiones. De modo que si siempre estuviera expresando el máximo ¿qué dejaría para esos momentos (siempre hay cuatro o cinco en cada vida, en cada individuo) en que uno debe apelar el corazón en pleno? También siento un leve resquemor frente a lo cursi, y a mí lo cursi me parece justamente eso: andar siempre con el corazón en la mano.

Los únicos interesados en cambiar el mundo son los pesimistas, porque los optimistas están encantados con lo que hay.

I say “Out” to every negative thought that comes to my mind. No person, place, or thing has any power over me, for I am the only thinker in my mind. I create my own reality and everyone in it.

It's not an endlessly expanding list of rights — the 'right' to education, the 'right' to health care, the 'right' to food and housing. That's not freedom, that's dependency. Those aren't rights, those are the rations of slavery — hay and a barn for human cattle.

My best advice is to be yourself. Unless you’re psychotic, then you might want to try a different tactic.

No matter where we live on the planet or how difficult our situation seems to be, we have the ability to overcome and transcend our circumstances.

No hay que prometer nada porque las promesas son horribles ataduras, y cuando uno se siente amarrado tiende a liberarse, eso es fatal.

Hay algo en el generoso y abnegado amor de un animal que llega directamente al corazón de aquel que con frecuencia a probado la falsa amistad y la frágil fidelidad del hombre".

Estoy solo y no hay nadie en el espejo.

How unjust then to meet that person you love, and be kept away from them only because ones bed is made of hay , and the other, feathers.

Perhaps it's good for one to suffer. Can an artist do anything if he's happy? Would he ever want to do anything? What is art, after all, but a protest against the horrible inclemency of life?

He walked backwards a few more steps and brought Brittany’s hand to his lips without taking his eyes off me. My hand tingled where he kissed her. And the bastard knew it.

Up is down. Down is up.” “And that means … ?” “I’m probably half in love with a boy I don’t really like.

Just remember, a dark shadow need light to exist but light doesn't need darkness to be luminous.

No hay que pensar nunca en perder. De sólo pensarlo se pierde

Dentro de ti hay muchos más de lo que tú imaginas

Donny recovered herself. “Dude, that was the seventh sign of the apocalypse. I’m so not going to class on the last day of the world.

No existe la luz sin la oscuridad. No se concibe el bien sin el mal. No hay perdón sin ofensa. No hay redención sin rendición.

¿Hay algo más seductor y a la vez más doloroso para el hombre que el libre albedrío?

No hay pecas suficientes para todos los «te quiero» que siento cada vez que te miro. Treinta y tres sería solo un prólogo; voy a tener que contar las pecas de todo tu cuerpo y así al menos tendremos el principio, el comienzo de todo lo que está por llegar. De todos los infinitos que no voy a poder contar.

Inside was where she lived, physically and mentally. She resided in the horn of plenty of her own prodigious mind, fertilized by inexhaustible curiosity.

En la vida no hay termino medio.. O es blanco o es negro

Miss Hayes, have you stopped to consider that you might have this all backward? That in fact you are my fantasy?

Think thoughts that make you happy. Do things that make you feel good. Be with people who make you feel good. Eat things that make your body feel good. Go at a pace that makes you feel good.

He raised his bony fingers as if to touch me and I steeled myself not to flinch as his hand, still smoldering, neared my face. He rattled and spoke his last words. "Worth...the...fall.

I have never understood the importance of having children memorize battle dates. It seems like such a waste of mental energy. Instead, we could teach them important subjects such as How the Mind Works, How to Handle Finances, How to Invest Money for Financial Security, How to be a Parent, How to Create Good Relationships, and How to Create and Maintain Self-Esteem and Self-Worth. Can you imagine what a whole generation of adults would be like if they had been taught these subjects in school along with their regular curriculum?

I do not fix problems. I fix my thinking. Then problems fix themselves.

Sois tres, tres como los soles, como las lunas, como los dioses y las diosas. En ese vinculo que hay entre vosotros esta vuestra fuerza... pero también vuestra mayor debilidad." Ha-Din

Every girl dreams about having her very own demon, but stalker is another story.

Love is the great miracle cure. Loving ourselves works miracles in our lives.

Yalena: Could you always open your door? Kiki: Yes. Fence, too. Yalena Why don't you? Kiki: Hay sweet. Fresh water. Peppermints.

No hay nada como respirar hondo después de reírte tanto. Nada en el mundo como el dolor de estómago por una buena causa.

His tunic was unbuttoned at the top, and he ran a hand through his blue-black hair before he wordlessly slumped against the wall across from me and slid to the floor. "What do you want?" I demanded. "A moment of peace and quiet," he snapped, rubbing his temples. I paused. "From what?" He massaged his pale skin, making the corners of his eyes go up and down, out and in. He sighed. "From this mess." I sat up farther on my pallet of the hay. I'd never seen him so candid. "That damned bitch is running me ragged," he went on, and dropped his hands from his temples to lean his head against the wall. "You hate me. Imagine how you'd feel if I made you serve in my bedroom. I'm High Lord of the Night Court - not her harlot." So the slurs were true. And I could imagine very easily how much I would hate him - what it would do to me - to be enslaved to someone like that. "Why are you telling me this?" The swagger and nastiness were gone. "Because I'm tired and lonely, and you're the only person I can talk to without putting myself at risk." He let out a low laugh. "How absurd: a High Lord of Prythian and a - " "You can leave if you're just going to insult me." "But I'm so good at it". He flashed one of his grins. I glared at him, but he sighted. "One wrong move tomorrow, Freyre, and we're all doomed.

No estoy celoso, si es eso lo que piensas. No veo por qué tienes que amar a una sola persona, si en tu corazón hay espacio para dos. No me perteneces. Tan solo me pertenece lo que sientes por mí. Pero tú puedes sentir otras cosas... por otras personas. Los sentimientos son libres y no siguen normas de ninguna clase.

You forget all of it anyway. First, you forget everything you learned-the dates of the Hay-Herran Treaty and Pythagorean Theorem. You especially forget everything you didn't really learn, but just memorized the night before. You forget the names of all but one or two of your teachers, and eventually you'll forget those, too. You forget your junior class schedule and where you used to sit and your best friend's home phone number and the lyrics to that song you must have played a million times. For me, it was something by Simon & Garfunkel. Who knows what it will be for you? And eventually, but slowly, oh so slowly, you forget your humiliations-even the ones that seemed indelible just fade away. You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. Who went to a good college. Who threw the best parties Who could get you pot. You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They're the last to go. And then once you've forgotten enough, you love someone else.

Hay quienes no pueden imaginar un mundo sin pájaros; hay quienes no pueden imaginar un mundo sin agua; en lo que a mi se refiere, soy incapaz de imaginar un mundo sin libros. There are those who cannot imagine a world without birds; there are those who cannot imagine a world without water; but in my case I am unable to imagine a world without books.

Faltering thinking and indecisive conduct often result in losing ground and yielding to bleak caginess that generates the redoubtable Buridan’s syndrome. As Buridan’s ass is placed equally between a stack of hay and a pail of water, it dies of both hunger and thirst. ("The door was still ajar")

I am willing to release the need to be unworthy. I am worthy of the very best in life, and I now lovingly allow myself to accept it

The thing about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, the thing that was so profound to me that summer—and yet also, like most things, so very simple—was how few choices I had and how often I had to do the thing I least wanted to do. How there was no escape or denial. No numbing it down with a martini or covering it up with a roll in the hay. As I clung to the chaparral that day, attempting to patch up my bleeding finger, terrified by every sound that the bull was coming back, I considered my options. There were only two and they were essentially the same. I could go back in the direction I had come from, or I could go forward in the direction I intended to go.

There are so many people who’ve come before us, arrows and wagon wheels, obsidian tools, buffalo. Look out at the meadow, you can almost see them, generations dissolved in the bluegrass and hay. I want to try and be terrific. Even for an hour.

By Hays' reasoning, penetrating a rectum with a penis is a violation of how God meant humans to function. However, penetrating a human body with a sword, a common way to kill people in biblical times, is acceptable. Apparently human bodies were designed to be penetrated by metal implements, but not by flesh.

Freedom is not empowerment. Empowerment is what the Serbs have in Bosnia. Anybody can grab a gun and be empowered. It's not entitlement. An entitlement is what people on welfare get, and how free are they? It's not an endlessly expanding list of rights -- the "right" to education, the "right" to food and housing. That's not freedom, that's dependency. Those aren't rights, those are the rations of slavery -- hay and a barn for human cattle. There is only one basic human right, the right to do as you damn well please. And with it comes the only basic human duty, the duty to take the consequences.

Hay ríos metafísicos, ella los nada como esa golondrina está nadando en el aire, girando alucinada en torno al campanario, dejándose caer para levantarse mejor con el impulso. Yo describo y defino y deseo esos ríos, ella los nada. Yo los busco, los encuentro, los miro desde el puente, ella los nada.

When I know your soul, I will paint your eyes

Era ese llanto que sobreviene cuando uno se siente opacamente desgraciado. Cuando alguien se siente brillantemente desgraciado, entonces sí vale la pena llorar con acompañamiento de temblores, convulsiones, y, sobre todo, con público. Pero cuando, además de desgraciado, uno se siente opaco, cuando no queda sitio para la rebeldía, el sacrificio o la heroicidad, entonces hay que llorar sin ruido, porque nadie puede ayudar y porque uno tiene conciencia de que eso pasa y al final se retoma el equilibrio, la normalidad.

So he was a sweet-talking, cross-dressing, fortune-telling...surfer?

In the infinity of life where I am, All is perfect, whole and complete, I no longer choose to believe in old limitations and lack, I now choose to begin to see myself As the Universe sees me --- perfect, whole, and complete.

Pero el amor, esa palabra... Moralista Horacio, temeroso de pasiones sin una razón de aguas hondas, desconcertado y arisco en la ciudad donde el amor se llama con todos los nombres de todas las calles, de todas las casas, de todos los pisos, de todas las habitaciones, de todas las camas, de todos los sueños, de todos los olvidos o los recuerdos. Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado...

Hay criminales que proclaman tan campantes ‘la maté porque era mía’, así no más, como si fuera cosa de sentido común y justo de toda justicia y derecho de propiedad privada, que hace al hombre dueño de la mujer. Pero ninguno, ninguno, ni el más macho de los supermachos tiene la valentía de confesar ‘la maté por miedo’, porque al fin y al cabo el miedo de la mujer a la violencia del hombre es el espejo del miedo del hombre a la mujer sin miedo.

The point of power is always in the present moment.

Thomas Merton wrote, “there is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.” There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It is so self-conscious, so apparently moral, simply to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won’t have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock-more than a maple- a universe. This is how you spend this afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.

My very own goth Mr. Darcy. Jane Austen would be so proud.

Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado.

You can kill a thinker, but you can't kill the thought.

Deep at the center of my being there is an infinite well of love.

You are the only person who thinks in your mind! You are the power and authority in your world.

Think they work you too hard? Think of poor Ali Sard. He has to mow grass in his uncle's backyard and its quick growing grass and it grows as he mows it the faster he mows it the faster he grows it. And all that his stingy old uncle will pay for his shoving mower around the hay is piffulous pay of two dooklas a day. And Ali can't live on such piffulous pay!

el infierno de los vivos no es algo que será; hay uno, es aquél que existe ya aquí, el infierno que habitamos todos los días, que formamos estando juntos. Dos maneras hay de no sufrirlo. La primera es fácil para muchos: aceptar el infierno y volverse parte de él hasta el punto de no verlo más. La segunda es peligrosa y exige atención y aprendizaje continuos: buscar y saber reconocer quién y qué, en medio del infierno, no es infierno, y hacerlo durar, y darle espacio.

hay algo que me muero por hacer.” Bipa puso los ojos en blanco. -¿Otra de tus geniales ideas? pues mira, yo ya he tenido bastante. Si quieres hacer experimentos, te las tendrás que arreglar solo, porque yo no pienso volver a meterme en líos por tu culpa. Aer hizo una mueca de decepción. -pues es una lástima-aseguró-,porque sin ti no será la mitad de interesante. Y la besó sin previo aviso.

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful tidings Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown, And the fruitful fields of England Shall be trod by beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips shall no more crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels, Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of England, Purer shall its water be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that day we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toils for freedom's sake. Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my tidings Of the golden future time.

Algunos infinitos son más grandes que otros infinitos, nos enseñó un escritor. Hay días, mucho de ellos, cuando resiento el tamaño de mi juego ilimitado. Quiero más numeros de los que puedo tener, y Dios, quiero mpas números para Augustus Waters que los que ha obtenido.Pero Gus, mi amor,no puedo decir cuando agradecida estoy por nuestro pequeño infinito. No lo cambiaría por el mundo entero. Me diste un por siempre con días enumerados, y estoy agradecida.

We all need small sparks, small accomplishments in our lives to fuel the big ones. Think of your small accomplishments as kindling. When you want a bonfire, you don’t start by lighting a big log. You collect some witch’s hair—a small pile of hay or some dry, dead grass. You light that, and then add small sticks and bigger sticks before you feed your tree stump into the blaze. Because it’s the small sparks, which start small fires, that eventually build enough heat to burn the whole fucking forest down.

Christ, don't go to the Haunted Houses with Ally and Indy. A few years ago, Indy went berserk and broke through the hay bales they had set up to make the haunted trail and headed into the cornfields. All the employees chased after her but since they were dressed like monsters, Indy lost her mind. They had to call the cops to settle her down." I lost him at "cornfields". "Cornfields?" I whispered. "Yeah." "They have a haunted trail through cornfields?" "Yeah, up in Thornton. Best Haunted House in Denver. Indy and Ally go every year. Why?" "Cornfields freak me out," I admitted. Hank was silent. Then, he said, "You're from Indiana. How in the fuck can cornfields freak you out?" "Cornfields don't freak me out. Cornfields at night freak me out. Haunted cornfields at night freak me out." "You been to many haunted cornfields?" "Dude," I said low. "All cornfields are haunted. Trust me. I know... They whisper to you.

Who was your first kiss?” Heat rushed into my face. I flattered myself by thinking maybe he wanted to kiss me. I wished he wanted to kiss me. “I haven’t …” Squeezing my eyes closed, I began again. “I haven’t been kissed. Yet.” “Why?” I rolled my eyes at his innocence. “You obviously know I’m not like other girls. I’m shy and I don’t spend time with boys. My father is strict and—” “That’s not why.” He thought he knew me so well. “Fine. You tell me why I haven’t been kissed.” I regretted the words and my tone instantly. What if he told me what I already knew? That I was lacking. Not interesting or pretty enough. “You were waiting.

Nhưng cô đơn là sự tối cần của người viết, nó là một điều kiện hàng đầu của nhà văn. Không một người viết hay nào tôi biết mà không cô đơn. Không một thần tượng văn chương nào của tôi mà không bị cô đơn dày vò. Và để chạy trốn nỗi cô đơn trong giao tiếp đơn thuần mặt nhìn mặt, tay nắm tay, việc viết văn đã dẫn tôi đến sự cô đơn khác, đó là ở giữa đám đông mà họ không thấy tôi, hoặc họ thấy một cái gì đó giống tôi, họ tưởng là tôi, nhưng tôi đang đứng ở một chỗ khác, một mình, chờ một nhịp tim đồng cảm. Khi người ta bằng mọi cách chạy trốn sự cô đơn thì tôi, và những đồng nghiệp của tôi lại nuôi cô đơn, cho nó ăn để duy trì sự cô đơn tồn tại trong người mình cho cái gọi là sáng tạo văn chương.

La rayuela se juega con una piedrita que hay que empujar con la punta del zapato. Ingredientes: una acera, una piedrita, un zapato, y un bello dibujo con tiza, preferentemente de colores. En lo alto está el Cielo, abajo está la Tierra, es muy difícil llegar con la piedrita al Cielo, casi siempre se calcula mal y la piedra sale del dibujo. Poco a poco, sin embargo, se va adquiriendo la habilidad necesaria para salvar las diferentes casillas (rayuela caracol, rayuela rectangular, rayuela de fantasía, poco usada) y un día se aprende a salir de la Tierra y remontar la piedrita hasta el Cielo, hasta entrar en el Cielo, (Et tous nos amours, sollozó Emmanuèle boca abajo), lo malo es que justamente a esa altura, cuando casi nadie ha aprendido a remontar la piedrita hasta el Cielo, se acaba de golpe la infancia y se cae en las novelas, en la angustia al divino cohete, en la especulación de otro Cielo al que también hay que aprender a llegar. Y porque se ha salido de la infancia (Je n'oublierai pas le temps des cérises, pataleó Emmanuèle en el suelo) se olvida que para llegar al Cielo se necesitan, como ingredientes, una piedrita y la punta de un zapato.

No puedo hablar sobre nuestra historia de amor, así que hablaré sobre matemáticas. No soy una matemática, pero sé esto: hay infinitos números entre el 0 y el 1. Hay .1 y .12 y .112 y una infinita colección de otros. Por supuesto, hay una colección más grande de números entre 0 y 2 o entre 0 y un millón. Algunos infinitos son más grandes que otros. Un escritor que nos gustaba nos enseñó eso. Hay días, muchos de ellos, cuando me resiento por el infinito. Quiero más números de los que soy capaz de conseguir, y Dios, quiero más números para Augustus Waters que los que tiene. Pero, Gus, mi amor, no puedo decir cuán agradecida estoy por nuestro pequeño infinito. No lo comercializaría con el mundo. Me diste un para siempre dentro de los días numerados y estoy agradecida.

Toco tu boca, con un dedo toco el borde de tu boca, voy dibujándola como si saliera de mi mano, como si por primera vez tu boca se entreabriera, y me basta cerrar los ojos para deshacerlo todo y recomenzar, hago nacer cada vez la boca que deseo, la boca que mi mano elige y te dibuja en la cara, una boca elegida entre todas, con soberana libertad elegida por mí para dibujarla con mi mano por tu cara, y que por un azar que no busco comprender coincide exactamente con tu boca que sonríe por debajo de la que mi mano te dibuja. Me miras, de cerca me miras, cada vez más de cerca y entonces jugamos al cíclope, nos miramos cada vez más de cerca y nuestros ojos se agrandan, se acercan entre sí, se superponen y los cíclopes se miran, respirando confundidos, las bocas se encuentran y luchan tibiamente, mordiéndose con los labios, apoyando apenas la lengua en los dientes, jugando en sus recintos donde un aire pesado va y viene con un perfume viejo y un silencio. Entonces mis manos buscan hundirse en tu pelo, acariciar lentamente la profundidad de tu pelo mientras nos besamos como si tuviéramos la boca llena de flores o de peces, de movimientos vivos, de fragancia oscura. Y si nos mordemos el dolor es dulce, y si nos ahogamos en un breve y terrible absorber simultáneo del aliento, esa instantánea muerte es bella. Y hay una sola saliva y un solo sabor a fruta madura, y yo te siento temblar contra mí como una luna en el agua.

Espero curarme de ti en unos días. Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad. ¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana? No es mucho, ni es poco, es bastante. En una semana se puede reunir todas las palabras de amor que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio. Porque las mejores palabras del amor están entre dos gentes que no se dicen nada. Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y subversivo del que ama. (Tú sabes cómo te digo que te quiero cuando digo: «qué calor hace», «dame agua», «¿sabes manejar?», «se hizo de noche»... Entre las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he dicho «ya es tarde», y tú sabías que decía «te quiero»). Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un panteón.

Even if it were possible to cast my horoscope in this one life, and to make an accurate prediction about my future, it would not be possible to 'show' it to me because as soon as I saw it my future would change by definition. This is why Werner Heisenberg's adaptation of the Hays Office—the so-called principle of uncertainty whereby the act of measuring something has the effect of altering the measurement—is of such importance. In my case the difference is often made by publicity. For example, and to boast of one of my few virtues, I used to derive pleasure from giving my time to bright young people who showed promise as writers and who asked for my help. Then some profile of me quoted someone who disclosed that I liked to do this. Then it became something widely said of me, whereupon it became almost impossible for me to go on doing it, because I started to receive far more requests than I could respond to, let alone satisfy. Perception modifies reality: when I abandoned the smoking habit of more than three decades I was given a supposedly helpful pill called Wellbutrin. But as soon as I discovered that this was the brand name for an antidepressant, I tossed the bottle away. There may be successful methods for overcoming the blues but for me they cannot include a capsule that says: 'Fool yourself into happiness, while pretending not to do so.' I should actually want my mind to be strong enough to circumvent such a trick.

que toda la historia de los pasadizos era una ridícula invención o creencia mía y que en todo caso había un solo túnel, oscuro y solitario: el mío, el túnel en que había transcurrido mi infancia, mi juventud, toda mi vida. Y en uno de esos trozos transparentes del muro de piedra yo había visto a esta muchacha y había creído ingenuamente que venía por otro túnel paralelo al mío, cuando en realidad pertenecía al ancho mundo, al mundo sin límites de los que no viven en túneles; y quizá se había acercado por curiosidad a una de mis extrañas ventanas y había entrevisto el espectáculo de mi insalvable soledad, o le había intrigado el lenguaje mudo, la clave de mi cuadro. Y entonces, mientras yo avanzaba siempre por mi pasadizo, ella vivía afuera su vida normal, la vida agitada que llevan esas gentes que viven afuera, esa vida curiosa y absurda donde en que hay bailes y fiestas y alegría y frivolidad.

Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun. When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey. Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year. Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them. But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons. The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests, bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake. Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence. What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of: Resheph Anath Ashtoreth El Nergal Nebo Ninib Melek Ahijah Isis Ptah Anubis Baal Astarte Hadad Addu Shalem Dagon Sharaab Yau Amon-Re Osiris Sebek Molech? All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following: Bilé Ler Arianrhod Morrigu Govannon Gunfled Sokk-mimi Nemetona Dagda Robigus Pluto Ops Meditrina Vesta You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal. And all are dead.

Y si, digo que me parecería de lo más bonito del mundo tomarnos de la mano y besarnos frente a los demás. Y comer fresas con crema de tu boca o de tus piernas en mi casa de campo mientras preparo chocolate caliente y tu enciendes la calefacción. Y estar cada noche en la azotea viendo constelaciones mientras te hago dibujos en la espalda de las mismas. Y decirte que me encantaría pasar horas dando vueltas en la cama mirandote y jugando contigo a que somos gatos que no quieren dormirse y quieren jugar hasta que se vaya la luna. Y quisiera despertar todos los días viendote despertar. Hacerte el desayuno, el amor. Compartirte mi vida. Decir que no hay peor ciego que el que no te quiera ver, y que la verdad el mundo sería bastante aburrido sin tu existencia. Y que me ha gustado un montón haberte encontrado. Y que sólo me sentiría perdido si te suelto de la cintura cuando bailemos. Que sólo en tus labios es que puedo calmar mi sed de verdad, y en tus ojos es que puedo disfrutar de un próspero amanecer. Que con nuestros cuerpos rozados uno al otro mi corazón da latidos de fuego artificial. Que la vida sin ti es un desperdicio, y que no me importa el tiempo que tenga que pasar esperandote por que te vistas a la hora de salir. Que no me importaría llegar tarde al trabajo si cada mañana despertamos, te hago el café comemos y hacemos el amor antes de despedirnos. Que sonreír es mucho más bonito cuando lo hago porque lo haces tú. Que me encantas con pijama, sin pijama, con lo que sea. Que eres tan bella que no dejas que nadie más para mí lo sea. Corretear por la cocina desnudos por estar jugando a las escondidas, aparecerme en la ducha cuando tu lo estás, abrazarte y besarte haciendote saber que eres la mejor persona del mundo y que ser feliz es sinónimo de estar contigo. Y besar tu cuello y acariciar tu vientre mientras digo que soy capaz de darle la vuelta al mundo para abrazarte por la espalda. Así te quedaría claro que eres amada por mí.

L'union libre [Freedom of Love]" My wife with the hair of a wood fire With the thoughts of heat lightning With the waist of an hourglass With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes With the tongue of an unbelievable stone My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof And of steam on the panes My wife with shoulders of champagne And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice My wife with wrists of matches My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts With fingers of mown hay My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut And of Midsummer Night Of privet and of an angelfish nest With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill My wife with legs of flares With the movements of clockwork and despair My wife with calves of eldertree pith My wife with feet of initials With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking My wife with a neck of unpearled barley My wife with a throat of the valley of gold Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent With breasts of night My wife with breasts of a marine molehill My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days With the belly of a gigantic claw My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically With a back of quicksilver With a back of light With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking My wife with hips of a skiff With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers And of shafts of white peacock plumes Of an insensible pendulum My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos My wife with buttocks of swans' backs My wife with buttocks of spring With the sex of an iris My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat My wife with a sex of mirror My wife with eyes full of tears With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle My wife with savanna eyes My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

Quizá la mayor facultad que posee nuestra mente sea la capacidad de sobrellevar el dolor. El pensamiento clásico nos enseña las cuatro puertas de la mente, por las que cada uno pasa según sus necesidades. La primera puerta es la puerta del sueño. El sueño nos ofrece un refugio del mundo y de todo su dolor. El sueño marca el paso del tiempo y nos proporciona distancia de las cosas que nos han hecho daño. Cuando una persona resulta herida, suele perder el conocimiento. Y cuando alguien recibe una noticia traumática, suele desvanecerse o desmayarse. Así es como la mente se protege del dolor: pasando por la primera puerta. La segunda es la puerta del olvido. Algunas heridas son demasiado profundas para curarse, o para curarse deprisa. Además, muchos recuerdos son dolorosos, y no hay curación posible. El dicho de que <> es falso. El tiempo cura la mayoría de las heridas. El resto están escondidas detrás de esa puerta. La tercera es la puerta de la locura. A veces, la mente recibe un golpe tan brutal que se esconde en la demencia. Puede parecer que eso no sea beneficioso, pero lo es. A veces, la realidad es solo dolor, y para huir de ese dolor, la mente tiene que abandonar la realidad. La última puerta es la de la muerte. El último recurso. Después de morir, nada puede hacernos daño, o eso nos han enseñado.

Now, for example, people with freckles aren’t thought of as a minority by the nonfreckled. They aren’t a minority in the sense we’re talking about. And why aren’t they? Because a minority is only thought of as a minority when it constitutes some kind of a threat to the majority, real or imaginary. And no threat is ever quite imaginary. Anyone here disagree with that? If you do, just ask yourself, What would this particular minority do if it suddenly became the majority overnight? You see what I mean? Well, if you don’t – think it over! “All right. Now along come the liberals – including everybody in this room, I trust – and they say, ‘Minorities are just people, like us.’ Sure, minorities are people – people, not angels. Sure, they’re like us – but not exactly like us; that’s the all-too- familiar state of liberal hysteria in which you begin to kid yourself you honestly cannot see any difference between a Negro and a Swede….” (Why, oh why daren’t George say “between Estelle Oxford and Buddy Sorensen”? Maybe, if he did dare, there would be a great atomic blast of laughter, and everybody would embrace, and the kingdom of heaven would begin, right here in classroom. But then again, maybe it wouldn’t.) “So, let’s face it, minorities are people who probably look and act and – think differently from us and hay faults we don’t have. We may dislike the way they look and act, and we may hate their faults. And it’s better if we admit to disliking and hating them than if we try to smear our feelings over with pseudo liberal sentimentality. If we’re frank about our feelings, we have a safety valve; and if we have a safety valve, we’re actually less likely to start persecuting. I know that theory is unfashionable nowadays. We all keep trying to believe that if we ignore something long enough it’ll just vanish…. “Where was I? Oh yes. Well, now, suppose this minority does get persecuted, never mind why – political, economic, psychological reasons. There always is a reason, no matter how wrong it is – that’s my point. And, of course, persecution itself is always wrong; I’m sure we all agree there. But the worst of it is, we now run into another liberal heresy. Because the persecuting majority is vile, says the liberal, therefore the persecuted minority must be stainlessly pure. Can’t you see what nonsense that is? What’s to prevent the bad from being persecuted by the worse? Did all the Christian victims in the arena have to be saints? “And I’ll tell you something else. A minority has its own kind of aggression. It absolutely dares the majority to attack it. It hates the majority–not without a cause, I grant you. It even hates the other minorities, because all minorities are in competition: each one proclaims that its sufferings are the worst and its wrongs are the blackest. And the more they all hate, and the more they’re all persecuted, the nastier they become! Do you think it makes people nasty to be loved? You know it doesn’t! Then why should it make them nice to be loathed? While you’re being persecuted, you hate what’s happening to You, you hate the people who are making it happen; you’re in a world of hate. Why, you wouldn’t recognize love if you met it! You’d suspect love! You’d think there was something behind it – some motive – some trick…