Quotes About Neruda

We did meet forty years ago. At that time we were both influenced by Whitman and I said, jokingly in part, 'I don't think anything can be done in Spanish, do you?' Neruda agreed, but we decided it was too late for us to write our verse in English. We'd have to make the best of a second-rate literature.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

For us, these five poets formed an alchemist mandala: Neruda was water, Parra air, de Rokha fire, Mistral earth, and Huidobro, in the center, quintessence.

Beatriz. Me la quedé mirando, y me enamoré de ella. Neruda se rascó su plácida calvicie con el dorso del lápiz. -Tan rápido. -No, tan rápido no. Me la quedé mirando como diez minutos.

Neruda was right about all mysterious women - The moon lives in the lining of their skin...

We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.

One of my favorite poets, Neruda, writes close to the bone. Though I know only a little Spanish, I like to compare the Spanish and English lines and see how the translator worked.

The accepted view appears to be that Neruda represent the real Chile: a place of poetry, freedom of spirit and international enterprise.

To see my country with the heart, one must read Pablo Neruda, the national poet who in his verses immortalized the imposing landscapes, the aromas and dawns, the tenacious rain and dignified poverty, the stoicism and the hospitality, of Chile. That is the land of my nostalgia, the one I invoke in my solitude, the one that appears as a backdrop in so many of my stories, the one that comes to me in my dreams.

Only wings evade death. Neruda says so.' As he turns the page he looks at Zara and makes his bright blue eyes big. 'And Neruda knows.' He reaches for his pipe. Zara stares at him for some time. 'Was he a friend of God?' Who? Neruda?' Yes.' He may have been, I'm not sure, petite. For all we know he may even have been God.

Why is it, he asked, that wherever a Chilean goes in the world, Neruda and his fucking seashells has already been there and set up a monopoly? He held my gaze waiting for me to counter him, and as he did I got the feeling that where he came from it was commonplace to talk as we were talking, an even to argue about poetry to the point of violence, and for a moment I felt brushed by loneliness.

...Neruda was right about all mysterious women - The moon lives in the lining of their skin...

Of so much moon were your hips to me, of all the sun your deep mouth and its delight, of so much burning light like honey in the shade

Ours is a lank country and on the naked edge of her knife our frail flag burns.

Nothing remains except that which was written with blood to be listened to by blood

Tienes razón –dijo Neruda. –Recuerda, Pablo –dijo García Márquez–, que los presidentes se vuelven expresidentes, pero los premio Nobel no se vuelven expremios Nobel: son premios Nobel toda la vida y toda la eternidad.

At the tomb, a woman silent all along steps from the circle and says: I want to sing. Neruda. Poem Twenty. Then she climbs atop the tomb and sings: Tonight I can write the saddest verses.