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I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.
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Beyond living and dreaming there is something more important: waking up.
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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.
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Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.
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Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits.
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These next days are crucial to see who is participating in the auctions. Everyone is waiting.
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The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.
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Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way- Only foam trails to the sea.
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It is good knowing that glasses are to drink from; the bad thing is not to know what thirst is for.
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I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.
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It's a no-news day so we've been tied to the behavior of Latin American markets and U.S. indexes. Volume's really low.
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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.
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The absence of vices adds so little to the sum of one's virtues.
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Man's passion for truth is such that he will welcome the bitterest of all postulates so long as it strikes him as true.
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Caminante, son tus huellasel camino, y nada más;caminante, no hay camino,se hace camino al andar.Al andar se hace camino,y al volver la vista atrásse ve la senda que nuncase ha de volver a pisar.Caminante, no hay camino,sino estelas en la mar.
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All uncertainty is fruitfull ... so long as it is accompanied by the wish to understand.
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At the very smallest wheel of our reasoning it is possible for a handful of questions to break the bank of our answers.
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What the poet is searching for is not the fundamental I but the deep you.
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Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.
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Wherever learning breeds specialists, the sum of human culture is enhanced thereby. That is the illusion and consolation of specialists.
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There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.
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No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.
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'Estos días azules y este sol de infancia'
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The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.