Quotes from Antonio Machado

Los caminitos blancos se cruzan y se alejan, buscando los dispersos caseríos del valle y de la sierra. Caminos de los campos... ¡Ay, ya no puedo caminar con ella!

Difícil es interpretar los sueños que desatan el haz de nuestros propósitos para mezclarlos con recuerdos y temores.(...)Son estos sueños memorias de lo pasado, que teje y confunde la mano torpe y temblorosa de un personaje invisible: el miedo".

A la vera de la fuente quedó Alvargonzález muerto. Tiene cuatro puñaladas entre el costado y el pecho, por donde la sangre brota, más un hachazo en el cuello.

Un buhonero que cruzaba aquellas tierras errante, fue en Dauria acusado, preso y muerto en garrote infame.

La imagen, tras el vidrio de equívoco reflejo, surge o se apaga como daguerrotipo viejo. Suena en la calle sólo el ruido de tu paso; se extinguen lentamente los ecos del ocaso.

La tierra de Alvargonzález se colmará de riqueza, y el que la tierra ha labrado no duerme bajo la tierra».

A heart is made mature by darkness and art.

Dicen que el hombre no es hombre mientras no oye su nombre de labios de una mujer.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt -- O, marvelous error -- That there was a beehive here inside my heart And the golden bees were making white combs And sweet honey from all my failures.

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Hoy es siempre todavía, toda la vida es ahora. Y ahora, ahora es el momento de cumplir las promesas que nos hicimos. Porque ayer no lo hicimos, porque mañana es tarde. Ahora.

Death is something we shouldn't fear because, while we are, death isn't, and when death is, we aren't.

Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar. (Walker, there is no road. The road is made as you walk.)

I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.

The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I'm not a sad man, and I don't believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don't put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there lies the fountain of youth in which my heart is continually bathing.

Caminante son tus huellas El camino nada más; caminante no hay camino se hace camino al andar.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence

I. Don't trace out your profile-- forget your side view-- all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren't.

In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.

Mankind owns four things That are no good at sea: Rudder, anchor, oars, And the fear of going down.