Best 54 quotes of Alejandra Pizarnik on MyQuotes

An unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. Nothing happens in it. No one intrudes. It is a bare stage where the inert I is assisted by the I suffering from that inertia. The latter wishes to free the former, but all efforts fail, as Theseus would have failed had he been not only himself but also the Minotaur; to kill him then, he would have had to kill himself

But, who is Death? A figure that harrows and wastes wherever and however it pleases. This is also a possible description of the Countess Bathory. Never did anyone wish so hard not to grow old; I mean, to die. That is why, perhaps, she acted and played the role of Death. Because, how can Death possibly die?

I don’t know about birds nor do I know the history of fire. But I believe that my solitude should have wings

You've built your homeyou've fledged your birdsyou've beaten the windwith your bonesyou've finished alonewhat no one began

All night I see that abandonment is me, that the sole sobbing voice is me. We can search with lanterns, cross the shadow's lie. We can feel the heart thud in the thigh and water subside in the archaic site of the heart. All night I ask you why. All night you tell me no.

All night I flee from someone. I lead the chase, I lead the fugue. I sing a song of mourning. Black birds over black shrouds. My brain cries.

All night I hear the voice of someone seeking me out. All night you abandon me slowly like the water that sobs slowly falling. All night I write luminous messages, messages of rain, all night someone checks for me and I check for someone.

And now what will I do with all this time that forms my life with all these people who care nothing for me now, that you've left all these nights why, for whom and this morning for nothing returning my heart banging for whom why banging gravely, gravely, and now how to face up to that nothingness my life slipping o friends be gentle you know well we have nothing to do with it And now what will I do now that you . . .

Aunque es tarde, es noche, y tú no puedes. Canta como si no pasara nada.

Because madness is a lie too. Like night. Like death.

Blue eyes as a response to this death right next to me, which speaks to me and is me.

cada hora, cada día, yo quisiera no tener que hablar. figuras de cera los otros y sobre todo yo, que soy más otra que ellos. nada pretendo en éste poema si no es desanudar mi garganta.

devouring myself and panicking

Don't forget your eyes because I inhabit them

Each word is you begging to utter it. Each word is the long invitation to memory.

Explicar con palabras de este mundo que partió de mí un barco llevándome.

Heredé de mis antepasados las ansias de huir. Dicen que mi sangre es europea. Yo siento que cada glóbulo procede de un punto distinto. De cada nación, de cada provincia, de cada isla, golfo, accidente, archipiélago, oasis. De cada trozo de tierra o de mar han usurpado algo y así me formaron, condenándome a la eterna búsqueda de un lugar de origen. Con los labios expresamente dibujados para exhalar quejas. Con la frente estrujada por todas las dudas. Con la malicia instintiva de la prohibición. Heredé el paso vacilante con objeto de no estatizarme nunca con firmeza en lugar alguno. ¡En todo y en nada! ¡En nada y en todo!

hours hours and hours snap up our pleasures

I collapse I touch myself a flower's gesture frail cold

I don't want to know anything but this perpetual wailing, this clatter in the night, this delay, this infamy, this pursuit, this inexistence.

I drank to see him again at the bottom of your wine

If I am anything, I’m cruelty.

I offer myself awfully abyss frost I offer myself you frighten me I offer myself I don't give a fuck

I recall the wind, the lilacs, the gray, the perfume, the song, and the wind, but I don't recall what the angel said.

Remember it. Remember that I must want it badly. Remember that this is the only thing left to want, in this world wide and deep.

I speak of something not in this world. I speak of someone whose purpose is elsewhere.

It'll be as always. Same pain, this disaffection, this non-love.

I wait until they finish up living without you at dawn without you

love me it's your play I say

Me alimento de música y de agua negra. Soy tu niña calcinada por un sueño implacable.

Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we all must play’. But for an instant – because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to its climax – the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies

Memory near oblivion. Far death

mind the angels my love mind also those words dragging across our lips

mi rostro? un cero disimulado..

. . . my fear, my joy more horrible than my fear, my obscene words, my words which are keys locking me into a mirror, with you, but ever alone.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

night opens I enter night shuts I don't leave

Return as ever. Your eyes are my only conveyance to death's other face.

Return, while night clatters and mirrors open and everything tears inside because of your absence. Everything wants to get on with the wind, the sky. To register a terrible gesture, some way of being without you, an impossible.

Sometimes we suffer too much reality in the space of a single night.

stumbling around I speak to keep from betraying a secret

The abyss of absence. But who'll say: don't cry at night?

The beauty of my bleak childhood, the unforgivable sadness shared by dolls and statues - voiceless objects suitable for the double monologue between myself and the luxurious lair I live in, the pirate treasure buried in my first-person singular.

The same night, the same rain.

the sense of things remains in the intensity of their names

the wine the sadness and the night

Una mirada desde la alcantarilla puede ser una visión del mundo, la rebelión consiste en mirar una rosa hasta pulverizarse los ojos.

What happened to Kafka is the same as what happened to me. He withdrew, he went too far into solitude and knew he must have known, you never come back from there.

when the day deranges us displacing our ennui angel presented under the vaults gather our grief

when the night is a bit more than some little suns pulled apart when the heart lets loose a cry our disquietude wrings dry