Comments

70 phrases by Júlio Cortázar, fantastic

70 phrases by Júlio Cortázar, fantastic

Julio Florencio Cortázar (1914 - 1984) was a famous and respected Argentine writer, translator and intellectual. He is considered one of the most innovative and original authors of his time, master of the short story, poetic prose and short story in general. He wrote wonderful novels that laid the foundations for a new way of making literature in the Hispanic world, managing to break the classic narrative molds. The contents of his work move between the real and the fantastic, so he is a reference in the writing of magical realism and even surrealism.

He lived during his childhood and youth in Argentina, and later, from the 50s in Europe. He lived in Spain, Italy, Switzerland and France, where he settled in 1951 and where he set some of his works. He opted for French nationality in 1981, in protest against the Argentine military regime. In addition to being a writer, he was also a renowned translator, a job he did, among others, for Unesco.

Famous quotes by Júlio Cortázar

We walked without looking for us but knowing that we were to meet.

Even the unexpected ends in custom when it has been learned to endure.

It is not that we have to live, since life is fatally given to us ... life lives itself, whether we like it or not.

All morning is the board where I invent and draw you.

Only by living absurdly could this infinite absurd ever be broken.

I think we all have a bit of that beautiful madness that keeps us going when everything around is so insanely sane.

My evil way of understanding the world helped me laugh softly ...

The explanation is a well dressed mistake.

But the bad thing about the dream is not the dream. The bad thing is what they call waking up ...

I was a tango lyrics for your indifferent melody.

Why not accept what was happening without trying to explain it, without laying down the notions of order and disorder?

It can't be that we are here so we can't be.

There are absences that represent a true triumph.

Probably of all our feelings the only one that is not truly ours is hope. Hope belongs to life, it is life itself defending itself.

If you fall I get you up and if I don't sleep with you.

He felt a kind of spiteful tenderness, something so contradictory that it must be the truth itself.

I increasingly suspect that agreeing is the worst illusion.

The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal, contrary to what most believe, the distance that goes from them to us.

There is no way to share a pillow, that completely clarifies the ideas; Sometimes it even ends them, which is a peace of mind.

Behind this sad spectacle of words, the hope that you read me, that I have not died completely in your memory trembles unspeakably ...

My interest soon became analytical. Tired of wondering I wanted to know; there is the invariable and dire end of all adventure.

The only certainty was the weight in the pit of the stomach, the physical suspicion that something was wrong, that he had almost never been well.

I don't know how to talk about happiness, but that doesn't mean I didn't have it.

In literature there are no good topics and bad topics: there is only a good or a bad treatment of the subject.

Cosity, that unpleasant feeling that where our presumption ends, our punishment begins.

All I want from you is so little in the background because in the background is everything.

You were always my mirror, I mean that to see me I had to look at you.

You do not choose the rain that will penetrate you to the bone when you leave a concert.

I was disgusted to think like that, once again I was thinking everything that the others had enough to feel.

By then I had realized that searching was my sign, emblem of those who go out at night with no fixed purpose, reason for the compass killers ...

Partial total: I love you. Overall total: I love you.

And there is death at the bottom if we don't run and arrive earlier and understand that it doesn't matter anymore.

Nothing is lost if you have the courage to proclaim that everything is lost and you have to start over.

What many people call loving is choosing a woman and marrying her. They choose it, I swear, I've seen them. As if you could choose in love, as if it wasn't a lightning bolt that breaks your bones and leaves you stuck in the middle of the yard.

Look, there is only one way to kill the monsters; accept them

It is enough to look at you to know that with you I am going to soak my soul.

Books are the only place in the house where you can still be calm.

And I must say that I fully trust the chance to have met you. That I will never try to forget you, and that if I did, I would not succeed.

And look that we barely knew each other and life was already urgently needed to uncover us thoroughly.

What I like about your body is sex. What I like about your sex is the mouth. What I like about your mouth is the tongue. What I like about your language is the word.

That is why we will never be the perfect couple, the postcard, if we are not able to accept that only in arithmetic the two is born of the one plus the one.

As you didn't know how to hide, I immediately realized that to see you as I wanted it was necessary to start by closing my eyes.

Negligible gifts like a kiss at an unexpected moment or a paper written to the rush. They may be worth more than a gem.

He loved the unlikely mess he was always in because of the failure of the laws in his life.

Who is willing to move, to lose focus, to degrade, to discover?

Life, as a comment of something else that we do not reach, and that is there within reach of the jump that we do not take.

I don't give up anything, I just do what I can to make things give up on me.

Come to sleep with me: we will not make love, he will make us.

For my part I had already got used to modestly exceptional things happening to me ...

How could I suspect that what seemed so false was true ...

Somewhere there must be a garbage dump where explanations are piled up. A single restless thing in this fair panorama: what can happen the day someone can also explain the landfill.

What do you want? Love asks for a street, asks for wind, does not know how to die in solitude.

People think they are friends because they agree a few hours a week on a sofa, a movie, sometimes a bed, or because they have to do the same job in the office.

Words never reach when what needs to be said overflows the soul.

Music! Melancholic food for those of us who live in love.

When it rained the water entered me to the soul.

I think I don't love you, I just want the obvious impossibility of loving you. Like the left glove in love with the right hand.

I will not tire you with more poems. Let's say I told you clouds, scissors, kites, pencils, and perhaps you once smiled.

I believe that from a very young age my misery and my happiness, at the same time, was not accepting things as they were given to me.

Poor love he who feeds on thought.

We were not in love, we made love with a detached and critical virtuosity, but then we fell into terrible silences and the foam of the beer glasses became like a bast, it warmed and contracted while we looked at each other and felt that that was the time ...

In reality, truly difficult things are all that people think they can do at all times.

You pay too much attention to a few metaphors.

I never give up anything. I only do what is within my reach so that things give up on me.

And that is how those who enlighten us are the blind.

We wanted each other in a dialectic of magnet and filing, of attack and defense, of ball and wall.

There are metaphysical rivers, she swims them like that swallow is swimming in the air, revolving around the bell tower, dropping to get up better with the momentum. I describe and define and desire those rivers, she swims them. I look for them, I find them, I look at them from the bridge, she swims.

And I will say the words that are said, and I will eat the things that are eaten, and I will dream the things that are dreamed, and I know very well that you will not be.

I spent my childhood in a haze of elves, elves, with a different sense of space and time than others.

And if we bite the pain is sweet, and if we drown in a brief and terrible breath simultaneously, that instant death is beautiful.

Too late, always, because although we made love so many times, happiness had to be something else, something perhaps sadder than this peace and pleasure, an air like a unicorn or island, an endless fall in immobility.