Quotes from Juan Filloy

On the avenue, dark and tree-lined, shop windows began to blink on.

The man of method may channel all his spiritual currents towards productive ends, be relentless in his suppression of predilection and propensity, but when accident upsets the flow of his life, he finds himself drowning in a sea of tedium, hatred, and rage.

La felicidad es un concepto incoercible.Huye a toda concreción. Cada cual la perfila conforma a su perspicacia o la define de acuerdo a sus aspiraciones. Pero nadie acierta." Caterva, p.29

As has already been stated: some people's brains border their anal regions. Thus, their senses are dulled, and the psychopathological pestilence is such that the intrepid scholar-explorer inevitably butts up against a dead end.

It's distressing when intellect can't detect its own defects.

Circles are absolutely vital.

His leap was exact, mathematical. The initial arc - head tucked between taut arms that spread out gradually like wings - was as graceful as a swan dive.

Skepticism was a drug for him. Life's vicissitudes had taught him never to be caught without it. A most useful drug, it magically invigorated his heart, transforming opprobrium into piety and ignominy into tolerance.

A sudden and unforseen swinging of his head alarmed all present. He seemed to be trying to scare off a flock of vampires biting into his brain.

Erik choked back the insult he'd been on the verge of uttering. Judging by his expression, it was viler than a castor-oil purgative.

Each man must administer his hatred cautiously. Mine is equitable. I distribute it evenly among those who are frozen in the past and those who perspire in the present. Because while the former are hemorrhoidal in their sensibility, the latter are constipated in the brain. And they complement each other by both betraying the law of life that demands the immediate defecation of all useless detritus, be it antiquated illusion or contemporary cowardice.

Perhaps he was probing the enigma of why men fall in love with their dreams, which are then so destroyed by harsh realities that their dreamers become cuckolded by their own illusions. Perhaps...

Whenever the mind tries to ascend into realms of new and sublime abstraction, matter persists and confines it in the cellar of habit.

Routines are unyielding. They take hold like lice.