Quotes About Expression

I am not an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is a moist fog.

I read what I'd written and thought once again: from what violent chasms is my most intimate intimacy nourished, why does it deny itself so much and flee to the domain of ideas? I feel within me a subterranean violence, a violence that only comes to the surface during the act of writing.

To write you I first cover myself with perfume.

I want to seize my is. And like a bird I sing hallelujah into the air. And my song belongs to no one. But no passion suffered in pain and love is not followed by an hallelujah.

Sometimes writing a single line is enough to save your own heart.

It is curious that I can't say who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can't say it.

I'm no more than a comma in life. I who am a colon. Thou, thou art my exclamation.

La coherencia es mutilación. Quiero el desorden

The difference between the insane and the not-insane person is that the latter doesn't do or say the things he thinks.

Saying meaningless words is my great freedom.

her short stories read like perfect songs.

I think we have to do forbidden things, otherwise we suffocate. But without feeling guilty and instead as an announcement that we are free.

this is a feast of words.

I also want the figurative like a painter who only paints abstract colors but wants to show that he does so because he chooses to, not because he can't draw.

Enquanto eu tiver perguntas e não houver resposta continuarei a escrever.

In no sense an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is like a dank haze. The words are sounds transfused with shadows that intersect unevenly, stalactites, woven lace, transposed organ music. I can scarcely invoke the words to describe this pattern, vibrant and rich, morbid and obscure, its counterpoint the deep bass of sorrow.

Her brown eyes were untranslatable…She was made entirely of a sweetness bordering on tears.

Mis desequilibradas palabras son el lujo de mi silencio.

Porque há o direito ao grito. Então eu grito.

This text that I give you is not to be seen close up: it gains its secret previously invisible roundness when seen from a high-flying plane. Then you can divine the play of islands and see the channels and seas. Understand me: I write you an onomatopoeia, convulsion of language. I'm not transmitting to you a story but just words that live from sound. I speak to you thus: "Lustful trunk.

I write in acrobatics and pirouettes in the air - I write because I so deeply want to speak.

No, no es fácil escribir. Es duro como partir rocas. Pero saltan chispas y astillas como aceros pulidos.

Understand me: I write you an onomatopoeia, convulsion of language.

she is a harmless virgin whom nobody needs. It strikes me that I don't need her either and that what I am writing could be written by another. Another writer, of course, but it would have to be a man for a woman would weep her heart out.