Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis rges Acevedo (Spanish pronunciation: [xoɾxe lwis boɾxes]) was an Argentine writer and poet born in Buenos Aires. In 1914, his family moved to Switzerland where he attended school and traveled to Spain. On his return to Argentina in 1921, rges began publishing his poems and essays in Surrealist literary journals. He also worked as a librarian and public lecturer.
Let this list of 36 quotations by the Argentinian poet Jorge Luis Borges lead you to an inspirational day. Recharge yourself with motivational single, writing, authors sayings, and satisfy your hunger for a better life.
What are the best Jorge Luis Borges quotes?
We've made this hand-picked collection of quotes to show you what is Jorge Luis Borges truly willing to say and leave for generations. Whether an inspirational quote or a motivational message about giving your best, we can all benefit from the wisdom, captured within these words.
Don't talk unless you can improve the silence.
Life itself is a quotation.
Any life, no matter how long and complex it may be, is made up of a single moment - the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is.
So plant your own gardens and decorate your soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
Art is endless like a river flowing, passing, yet remaining.
There are those who seek the love of a woman to forget her, to not think about her.
The machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men.
I have preferred to teach my students not English literature but my love for certain authors, or, even better, certain pages, or even better than that, certain lines. One falls in love with a line, then with a page, then with an author. Well, why not? It is a beautiful process.
I came to the idea of how fine it would be to think of an encyclopedia of an actual world, and then of an encyclopedia, a very rigorous one of course, of an imaginary world, where everything should be linked.
In the course of a life devoted less to living than to reading, I have verified many times that literary intentions and theories are nothing more than stimuli and that the final work usually ignores or even contradicts them.
It also occurred to him that throughout history, humankind has told two stories: the story of a lost ship sailing the Mediterranean seas in quest of a beloved isle, and the story of a god who allows himself to be crucified on Golgotha.
As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory - there are only words.
In fact I'm in too much of a mental muddle to know where I am - an idealist or not. I'm a mere man of letters, and I do what I can with those subjects.
I don't think I can really believe in doomsday;
I could hardly believe in rewards and punishments, in heaven or hell. As I wrote down in one of my sonnets - I seem to be always plagiarizing, imitating myself or somebody else for that matter - I think I am quite unworthy of heaven or of hell, and even of immortality.
Art is very mysterious. I wonder if you can really do any damage to art. I think that when we're writing, something comes through or should come through, in spite of our theories. So theories are not really important.
Emma dropped the paper. Her first impression was of a weak feeling in her stomach and in her knees; then of blind guilt, of unreality, of coldness, of fear; then she wished that it were already the next day. Immediately afterwards she realized that that wish was futile because the death of her father was the only thing that had happened in the world, and it would go on happening endlessly.
In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman’s eyes. You have used up the years and they have used up you, and still, and still, you have not written the poem.
What will die with me when I die, what pathetic or fragile form will the world lose?
Let neither tear nor reproach besmirch this declaration of the mastery of God who, with magnificent irony, granted me both the gift of books and the night.
Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process.
I don't think we're capable of knowledge, but I like to keep an open mind.
So if you ask me whether I believe in an afterlife or not, whether I believe in God or not, I can only answer you that all things are possible. And if all things are possible, heaven and hell and the angels are also possible. They're not to be ruled out.
I suppose every poet has his own private mythology.
Maybe he's unaware of it. People tell me that I have evolved a private mythology of tigers, of blades, of labyrinths, and I"m unaware of the fact this is so. My readers are finding it all the time. But I think perhaps that is the duty of poet.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart, I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
Time, which despoils castles, enriches verses.
Everything touches everything.
When I feel I'm going to write something, then I just am quiet and I try to listen. Then something comes through. And I do what I can in order not to tamper with it.
Writing long books is a laborious and impoverishing act of foolishness: expanding in five hundred pages an idea that could be perfectly explained in a few minutes. A better procedure is to pretend that those books already exist and to offer a summary, a commentary.
His life, measured in space and time, will take up a mere few lines, which my ignorance will abbreviate further.
Truth never penetrates an unwilling mind.
The worst labyrinth is not that intricate form that can entrap us forever, but a single and precise straight line
Only in the present do things happen.
I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future . . . I felt myself to be, for an unknown period of time, an abstract perceiver of the world.
I live in a grey world, rather like the silver screen world. But yellow stands out.
The certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal.
Like all those possessing a library, Aurelian was aware that he was guilty of not knowing his in its entirety.
That is what always happens: we never know whether we are victors or whether we are defeated.
Nowadays, one of the churches of Tlön maintains platonically that such and such a pain, such and such a greenish-yellow colour, such and such a temperature, such and such a sound, etc., make up the only reality there is. All men, in the climactic instant of coitus, are the same man. All men who repeat one line of Shakespeare are William Shakespeare.
The task of art is to transform what is continuously happening to us, to transform all of these things into symbols, into music, into something which can last in man’s memory. That is our duty. If we don’t fulfill it, we feel unhappy.