Pablo Neruda Quotes

I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Fans say I have a lot of sorrow in my eyes. It's true.

I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it’ll make sense.

But I saw the pain and sadness in everything, and swirled it round my mouth like a fine wine.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.

And I'm dying to know, is it killing you like it's killing me? And the story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now.

I carried Rudy softly through the broken street...with him I tried a little harder at comforting. I watched the contents of his soul for a moment and saw a black-painted boy calling the name Jesse Owens as he ran through an imaginary tape. I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It's his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

I try to tighten my heart into a knot, a snarl, I try to learn to live dead, just numb, but then I see someone I want, and it's like a nail, like a hot spike right through my chest, and I know I'm losing.

Perhaps love is a minor madness. And as with madness, it's unendurable alone. The one person who can relieve us is of course the sole person we cannot go to: the one we love. So instead we seek out allies, even among strangers and wives, fellow patients who, if they can't touch the edge of our particular sorrow, have felt something that cuts nearly as deep.

He wanted this someone to see how much he hurt.

The pain of being alone is completely out of this world, isn't it? I don't know why, but I understand your feelings so much, it actually hurts.

Sorrow lies like a heartbeat behind everything I have written.

The blues was bleeding the same blood as me.

The great thing about a song is that no one has to know your story. But if you tell it in a way that has clarity and means something to somebody else, then it can apply to their story.

Tears come from the heart and not from the brain.

I bleed like nobody else.

My entire soul is a cry, and all my work is a commentary on that cry.

Our family has gone through a very difficult time. My husband and I have taken the brunt of it. I've never known what it truly felt like to be so sad and desperate inside.

My painting carries with it the message of pain.

Love and despair go hand in hand.

People aren't very good at other people's pain.

I used to write out of angst. My writing was quite miserable, quite angry, even when it was funny. It was based on this sadness and tired emotional disdain for the world.

It is difficult to ever think about your loved one having suffered.