Silvina Ocampo Quotes

When you write, everything is possible, even the very opposite of what you are.

How short life would be if certain unpleasant moments didn't make it feel endless!

Writing is a luxury or, with luck, a rainbow of colors. It is my lifesaver when the water of the river or the sea tries to drag me under. When you want to die you fall in love with yourself, you look for something touching that will save you.

What matters is what we write: that is what we are, not some puppet made up by those who talk and enclose us in a prison so different from our dreams.

Podré olvidar muchas experiencias de la vida, pero no las de la infancia. Siempre recuerdo aquel verso que dice: ¡Oh, infancia! ¡Oh, mi amiga! Y lo que importa en él es lo que no se dice. Nuestra infancia es ciertamente nuestra amiga, pero nosotros no fuimos amigos de nuestra infancia porque entonces no existíamos como somos ahora. Aquel ser desvalido que fuimos a veces nos conmueve porque nadie pudo comprenderlo del todo, salvo nosotros... que todavía no estábamos a su lado.

Todas las fotografías son espejos de lo que fuimos, pero no de lo que somos ni de lo que seremos.

A veces morir es simplemente irse de un lugar, abandonar a todas las personas y las costumbres que uno quiere. Por ese motivo el exiliado que no desea morir sufre, pero el exiliado que busca la muerte, encuentra lo que antes no había conocido: la ausencia del dolor en un mundo ajeno." —La continuación

Lo más terrible es sentir en nuestra vida, en la que todo parece repetirse, la incapacidad de volver a escribir un cuento que hemos perdido.

La soga parecía tranquila cuando dormía sobre la mesa o en el suelo.Nadie la hubiera creído capaz de ahorcar a nadie.

[...] la casualidad existe y a veces conviene.

I promise to feel no other pain if I cease to feel the one that’s killing me now.

You were not gazing at the fallen leaves. You went away from all the following seasons, feeling immortal. You loved tattoos and salt. Mariner, with two oars you knew the sea like a garden...then, you were gone.

Somos un compendio de contradicciones, de afectos, de amigos, de malentendidos: somos monstruos. [...] Somos también lo que hacen de nosotros las personas. No queremos a las personas por lo que son, sino por lo que nos obligan a ser.

aAlina Cerunda was pretty despite her seventy years. Anyone who says she wasn't is a liar. However, old people always look like they're in disguise, and that ruins everything.

—¿Moriré? —Necesariamente, no —respondía Magush—. Puedes vivir sin un destino —Pero hasta los perros tienen destino —protesté yo. —Los perros no pueden evitarlo: son obedientes.

—¿La gente no dirá que estás loca? —Peor para ellos. No tienen corazón, y la vida es muy triste para los que no tienen corazón. Nadie los quiere. —Mujer, tienes razón." —Mimoso

— Los barriletes son juegos de varones. — Los juguetes no tienen sexo.

Recordar el presente es alargar más el tiempo.

Te amaba como si me pertenecieras, sin recordar que nadie pertenece a nadie, que poseer algo, cualquier cosa, es un vano padecimiento.

El amargo gusto del mar, tan parecido a las lágrimas, entró en mi boca. Me desvanecí. No sé quién nos salvó, pero sea quien fuere, no se lo perdono, pues le debo haber quedado en este mundo de peleas, en lugar de haber perecido en un espléndido naufragio, abrazada a mi marido.

Maybe organizing the bookshelves is more effort than it's worth. True, books look attractive on the shelves and make a space feel inhabited, but when they wake from their vertical slumber, they have lives of their own. Some books even give life to others- like the ones Silvina Ocampo writes about, which when left to their own devices, begin to fornicate and reproduce.

On the surface, there is no distinction between our experiences—some are vivid, others opaque; some are pleasant, others cause agony upon recollection—but there is no way of knowing which are dreams and which are reality.

—¿No tenés amigos de infancia? —No me casé con los amigos de la infancia. Si ahora tengo poco discernimiento para elegirlos, ¿cómo habrán sido las equivocaciones de mis primeros años? Las amistades de infancia son erróneas, y no se puede ser fiel al erro indefinidamente.

In a way, like Scheherazade to King Shahryar, I told stories to death so that it would spare my life and my images, stories that seemed to never end.

It is so overwhelming to be loved exclusively.

Dios mío, perdóname por haber escrito tantas inútiles palabras. Sólo quise llenar el silencio que adoro.

Yo sentía el transcurso, la esencia del tiempo en sus repeticiones. Recordar el presente es alargar más el tiempo.

En mi corazón ¿predominaba la ira o el remordimiento? La ira convertida en resentimiento se volvía más incómoda; el remordimiento convertido en asombro, más llevadero.

If I were a tree I would be the tree you're seeing with its open crown, which will keep on growing.

Cada recuerdo era otra chiquita distinta, pero que llevaba su mismo rostro.

I write in order to forget scorn, in order not to forget, in order not to hate, from hate, from love, from memory, and so as not to die.

Houses dream they are boats at night.

You could put rocks or lead weights on my feet. Haven't you read in a newspaper or novel that they throw bodies into the sea? Don't you ever go to the movies? It's so poetic.

When you write, everything is possible, even the very opposite of what you are. I write so that other people can discover what they should love, and sometimes so they discover what I love. I write in order not to forget what is most important in the world: friendship and love, wisdom and art. A way of living without dying, a way of death without dying. On paper, something of us remains, our soul holds on to something in our lives: something more important than the human voice, which changes with health, luck, muteness, and finally, with age.

Children are like that, Irene often thought, for every small dose of happiness they give us, we have to swallow all the bitterness in the world. Men are like that too. That's how the world is.

—Es difícil hablar de Silvina, porque una cuenta las anécdotas y parece una tarada. Ella parece una tarada, yo parezco una tarada; y sin embargo, Silvina era genial, pero es difícil explicar por qué. Había que escucharla, qué sé yo —dice Francis Korn.

The couple had only lived a short while in that village, and they were poor as rats. Leonarda's husband bought damaged cigarettes, personally extracted his own teeth, ate meat and polenta twice a week, drank mate from an earthenware mug, never took his wife to the movies, and when she was ill he took her to a veterinarian.

¿Acaso el infierno que le estaba destinado sería peor que el mundo infernal en que estaba viviendo?

It was a fruit relationship, perhaps symbolizing sex.

Like Gabriela, she liked animals because they behaved in a natural way; if they were hungry they ate nonstop, if they were thirsty they drank until they were full, if they were in heat they made love desperately, if they were tired they slept at any hour of the day, if they were furious they bit or scratched or killed their enemy. It is true is that they also died and that dying is ridiculous, but they were so meticulous, so precise.

Have you ever eaten flies?" Mendiondo asked. "Yes, when I was a kid, on a dare. Of course, I tore off the wings and tiny legs before I ate it.

Mr. Arevalo was very tall and stooped when he walked, He had a woman's voice and a dog's face.

Gabriela has been dreaming about her and about a pair of shoes for quite some time.

Para mí la muerte será una llegada y no una despedida".

recuerdo de los seres normales, son brevísimos y casi inexistentes para quien los prevé y solamente los vive.

Creo que esa falta esencial de recuerdos, en mi caso, no provenía de una falta de memoria: creo que mi pensamiento, ocupado en adivinar el futuro, tan lleno de imágenes, no podía demorarse en el pasado.

-Ser amada no da felicidad, lo que da felicidad es amar, señora.

¿Cuánto tiempo hace que no pienso en otra cosa que en ti, imbécil, que te intercalas entre las líneas del libro que leo, dentro de la música que oigo, en el interior de los objetos que miro?

Nadie le decía: Toñito, no juegues con la soga.

I feel such sorrow when I think how horror imitates beauty.

Talking to yourself is the last subterfuge.

Ella era muy original”, solía decir Bioy Casares, tratando de ser caballeroso, elegante, tratando de no decir que su esposa era excéntrica. Desopilante, impredecible, graciosa, perversa: todos los adjetivos de la sorpresa perpetua.

It was then that the touching vision of a forehead, of certain eyes, of a face began to haunt and pursue me, forming my desires. That face lingered for many days and many nights before taking shape. The truth is: I had the burning desire to be a saint. I vehemently wished for the face to be God’s or that of the infant Jesus. In church, in etchings, in books, and in medallions I searched for that adorable face: I didn’t want to find it anywhere else, didn’t want it to be human, or contemporary, or true. I don’t think anyone has ever had so much trouble recognizing the danger signs of love. How I gave in to my adolescent tears! Only now can I remember the light yet penetrating aroma of the roses Gabriel gave me, while gazing into my eyes, as we left school. That prescience would have lasted a whole lifetime.

«El enfrentamiento de los niños terribles pasa por el odio a la familia, y se detiene allí: como hijos de la gran burguesía, no tienen oposición fundamental contra todo el orden social, pero su calidad de marginados familiares les crea una oposición parcial con una de las instituciones fundamentales de ese orden como lo es la familia. Los niños terribles asumen el Mal, no la Revolución.»

Yo no quiero que me respeten. Yo quiero que me quieran.”»

Y algunas veces hacía alguna travesura a la planchadora –que era sorda– con cierta crueldad. Cuando ella salía del cuarto de planchar yo me metía debajo de la mesa y cuando volvía le agarraba las dos piernas y no se las soltaba. Como era sorda, eso le daba más miedo que a cualquier otra persona.»

Los adultos le preguntaban si le habían comido la lengua, y la sola idea de que alguien pudiera mutilarla así la aterraba.

Faltan días para su primera comunión y no confiesa la experiencia. Por eso, cree, comulga en pecado mortal. Y en pecado mortal permanece.

In my hands, which smell of soap, I hide my innocent whims. Why? I don't know. They are like the precious stones in the workings of a watch - those rubies are necessary!

I am aware of my limitations, but happiness, and the lack of obstacles, don't seem indispensable for me to live." "Me neither. Sometimes you make a decision and fulfill it even though the cause that has made you decide to do it no longer exists." "Then you operate on the basis of selfishness." "No, not selfishness but rather out of impulse, a seeming fidelity to myself.

I look at everything without seeing anything. That's my habit. People think I'm nearsighted. In a certain sense I am.

I admire her for nothing in particular and for everything. Because she inhabits herself as if she were inside a house. Because she is shameless. Because she doesn't have any pimples or marks on her face.

And are you still in love?" "No. Have you always had a mustache?" "Only when I go out. When I am at home I take it off." "Take it off now." "Why do you want to kill yourself?" "Why do you wear a false mustache?

When you die, the demons and the angels are equally eager, knowing that you are asleep, still in one world and partly in another, and will come in disguise to your bed, stroke your head, and ask you to choose the things you had preferred during your life. First, they will show you the simple things, as if opening a book of samples. If they show you the sun, the moon, or the stars, you will see them in a ball of painted crystal, and you will think the crystal ball is the world; if they show you the sea or the mountains, you will see them in a stone and will think the stone is the sea or the mountains; if they show you a horse, it will be a miniature figurine, but you will think the horse is a real horse. The angels and the demons will confuse your spirit with pictures of flowers, glazed fruit, and candies. Making you think you are still a child, they will seat you in a chair formed from their hands called the queen's chair, or the golden seat, and in this way they will carry you with their hands clasped through those hallways to the center of your life, where your favorite things are hidden. Be careful. If you choose more things from Hell than from Heaven, you may be sent to Heaven; on the other hand, if you choose more things from Heaven than from Hell, you risk going to Hell, because your love of celestial things could be a sign of greed. The laws of Heaven and Hell are flexible. Whether you're sent to one place or the other depends on the slightest detail. I know people who because of a broken key or a wicker birdcage went to hell, and others who for a sheet of newspaper or a glass of milk went to heaven.

When you die, the demons and the angels are equally eager, knowing that you are asleep, still in one world and partly in another, and will come in disguise to your bed, stroke your head, and ask you to choose the things you had preferred during your life. First, they will show you the simple things, as if opening a book of samples. If they show you the sun, the moon, or the stars, you will see them in a ball of painted crystal, and you will think the crystal ball is the world; if they show you the sea or the mountains, you will see them in a stone and will think the stone is the sea or the mountains; if they show you a horse, it will be a miniature figurine, but you will think the horse is a real horse. The angels and the demons will confuse your spirit with pictures of flowers, glazed fruit, and candies. Making you think you are still a child, they will seat you in a chair formed from their hands called the queen's chair, or the golden seat, and in this way they will carry you with their hands clasped through those hallways to the center of your life, where your favorite things are hidden. Be careful. If you choose more things from Hell than from Heaven, you may be sent to Heaven; on the other hand, if you choose more things from Heaven than from Hell, you risk going to Hell, because your love of celestial things could be a sign of greed. The laws of Heaven and Hell are flexible. Whether you're sent to one place or the other depends on the slightest detail. I know people who because of a broken key or a wicker birdcage went to hell, and others who for a sheet of newspaper or a glass of milk went to heaven.

Certain postures make us believe in happiness. Sometimes lying down makes me believe in love.

The dead don't feel pain, miss." "Is that what you think, sir? The dead are very sensitive. They feel everything. They think more clearly than we do. If you offer them meat or wine they won't appreciate it, but offer them music or perfume and you'll see. They are never absentminded. They see ultraviolet colors like doves do. They are refined and sensitive. Otherwise, how else could you explain that they are given so many flowers? That people spend so much on flowers, statuettes, masses, hearses? How should I know?

Quero minha solidão, a quero com mil caras impessoais.

I don't have a life of my own; I have only feelings. My experiences were never important -- not during the course of my life nor even on the threshold of death. Instead, the lives of others have become mine.

The world is not magical. We make it magical all of a sudden inside us, and nobody finds out until many years later.

Monotonous things are the hardest to get to know. We never pay enough attention to them because we think that they are always the same.

Indifference isn't suffering." "It's worse.

I understand that our lives depend on a certain number of people who see us as living beings. If those people imagine that we are dead, we die.

I thought about how cruel people can be when they are afraid. Why had I thrown the rock? To deserve being punished? To prove that I could kill too? To prove something to someone? To myself. Nobody had seen me.

The women cried with the force of poetry

When we are awake, we live in a shared world, but when we sleep, each of us is hurled into a world of our own.

there are voices that you can see, that keep on revealing the expression of a face even after its beauty is gone.

A silence of cloisters and roses was in our hearts.

I have no memories. The angels will bring back all my memories on the day of my death. The cherubim will bring back the forms of all the faces. They will bring back all the hairstyles and ribbons, the positions of arms, past shapes of hands. The seraphim will bring me taste, sound, and fragrances, the flowers I received as gifts, landscapes. The archangels will bring back conversations and farewells, light, the silence of reconciliation.

She understood the perversity of a world in which a woman couldn't have her dog embalmed without people thinking her crazy.

It's hard to hide at night. At night every sound can be heard and the moonlight is like the light of your conscience. And the plants. Do you think the plants can help you?

Children's crimes are dangerous. Children use any means to reach their ends. They study dictionaries. Nothing gets by them.

I venture forward with fear, as happens when one is in love.

From that moment on, you would always see the tragedies of your life adorned with tiny details. You missed the delicate flower of the mimosa, your odd weakness, but you felt that this arcane spectacle, brought on by unforeseen circumstances, would accomplish its goal: the impossible violation of your solitude.

Sitting on the terrace, wrapped in the whiteness of her dress, she felt what all women dressed in white must feel on a beautiful day - she felt transparent and impersonal like the day itself, surrounded by crowds of flowers awaiting her.

The trees were bleeding with a wonderful smell - their wounds open, striped with red and blue. The forest became a huge hospital of wounded trees, without arms and without legs.

The whole world is a monument to our fidelity, because what is ours will never be found elsewhere without all the visions I have listed, symbols of the love that enslaves us. And if you go in search of a world without memories in order to forget, there is nothing that will block our eyes or our ears. Our skin is wide awake and covered with eyes, although others think that we only have two eyes, and ears, although others think we only have two ears. Certain key places in our bodies connect us to those aspects of spirituality, of sex, that cannot be confessed, like the palm of the woman's hand, the inside of her elbow, or the vulnerable flesh of his ear and the curve of his foot.

Nadie quiere estar solo. La soledad se volvió agreste, hasta peligrosa. Antes, era el canto de los ruiseñores, era la brisa bajo los árboles; en un lecho era el coito, era el sabor de lo que iría a suceder mañana, tal vez pasado mañana, tal vez nunca. Ahora, ¿quiere que le diga lo que es? Es la bomba de agua que se ha tapado, es la corriente eléctrica que no funciona, es el teléfono que llama de parte de nadie (...).

Usted quiere perdurar no en hijos ni en dominios terrenales, usted quiere perdurar en la historia del mundo, como los helechos. No quiere ser una mera figura televisada, una mera voz que se eleva entre las otras en vano.

Dígame algo inolvidable. Haga algo que pueda pertenecer a la eternidad, a la permanencia, si es que la eternidad es permanente.

Nada he detestado más que la censura, porque la censura es criminal cuando los que censuran no tienen inteligencia ni discernimiento. Ahora estoy de acuerdo porque estoy de acuerdo con cualquier disparate, ya que todo está fuera de su sitio. Uno no protesta más, uno se resigna.

Amar a alguien no es bastante, y tal vez por previsión, para no perder nunca lo amado, se aprende a amar todo aquello que lo rodea cuando se está con él.

La muerte, que todo el mundo considera tétrica, es simplemente absurda. Como el Diablo, si uno lo reconoce y lo mira fríamente. Es claro que no todos disponen de la misma suerte.

¿Estaré poniéndome viejo para sentir tantas incomodidades, tantos recuerdos que, a fuerza de ser lejanos, se me antojan ajenos? ¿Qué puede importarme el pasado?

Creer que los hombres recuerdan solo el pasado es una mala costumbre; creen en los antepasados, pero no en los postfuturos. Recuerdan el futuro también, con igual nostalgia, con más inquietud tal vez (...).

Lo más importante de todo para nosotros es olvidarnos del tiempo y saber que estamos viviendo en el mundo de quien nos mira en este instante. Que todo el mundo vive en cualquier instante en el mundo de quien lo mira (...).

Un muerto se aleja de sus propiedades, nada es su verdadera propiedad y ese nada es su privilegio, su último patrimonio.

No comprendo cómo llegué a tan absurda renuncia de mí mismo: ya no tomo en cuenta lo que puedas sentir por mí. Soy un verdadero fantasma: el mundo que me rodea es un recuerdo, solo un recuerdo. Lo actual no me importa. Débilmente vuelven a mí versos que me gustaron y que retuve en la memoria, fortalecida por la nostalgia (...).

Y después de tanto trabajo, me di cuenta de que era mejor que las cosas no se parecieran tanto a lo que eran.

Entonces no supo para que servía resucitar, ya que se parecía tanto a seguir viviendo, y para sacar alguna conclusión le vino a la memoria un párrafo de Platón: «En verdad el mundo que nos rodea no cesa de destruirnos y dividirnos y de expulsar las parcelas que se desprenden de nosotros hacia las masas de la misma especie».