Pablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean writer and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. Neruda assumed his pen name as a teenager, partly because it was in vogue, partly to hide his poetry from his father, a rigid man who wanted his son to have a "practical" occupation.
Let this list of 22 quotations by the Chilean writer Pablo Neruda lead you to an inspirational day. Recharge yourself with motivational love, neruda, loved sayings, and satisfy your hunger for a better life.
What are the best Pablo Neruda quotes?
We've made this hand-picked collection of quotes to show you what is Pablo Neruda 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.
Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying.
..and every day on the balcony of the sea wings open fire is born and everything is blue again like morning.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often.
Books don't slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
We the mortals touch the metals,
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
and I was discovering, naming all the these things:
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
He who does not travel, who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
..Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.
Latin America is very fond of the word "hope.
" We like to be called the "continent of hope." Candidates for deputy, senator, president, call themselves "candidates of hope." This hope is really something like a promise of heaven, an IOU whose payment is always being put off. It is put off until the next legislative campaign, until next year, until the next century.
We have to discard the past / and, as one builds / floor by floor, window by window, / and the building rises, / so do we keep shedding - first, broken tiles, / then proud doors... and each new day / gleams / like an empty / plate.
I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world on the blue shore of silence or where the storm has passed rampaging like a train. There the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris ,celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labour of soitude in the sand.
The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Ah, love is a voyage with water and a star, in drowning air and squalls of precipitate bran; love is a war of lights in the lightning flashes, two bodies blasted in a single burst of honey.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
Between lips and lips there are cities of great ash and moist summit, drops of when and how, vague comings and goings: between lips and lips as along a shore of sand and glass the wind passes.
Hands make the world each day.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
If each day falls
inside each night,
there exists a well
where clarity is imprisoned.
We need to sit on the rim
of the well of darkness
and fish for fallen light
Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.
Under your skin the moon is alive.
I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.
What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?
Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.
Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue,with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?
Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.
Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?