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He closed his eyes and tried to see her. Her and others of her kind, wolves and ghosts of wolves running in the whiteness of that high world as perfect to their use as if their counsel had been sought in the devising of it.
It was never that this man ceased to believe in God. No. It was rather that he came to believe terrible things of Him.
To see God everywhere is to see Him nowhere.
As has been the case with many a philosopher that which at first seemed an insurmountable objection to his theories came gradually to be seen as a necessary component to them and finally the centerpiece itself.
the truth may often be carried about by those who themselves remain all unaware of it.
Stones themselves are made of air. What they have power to crush never lived.
Ragged, dirty, hungry in eye and belly. Totally unspoken for. In that outlandish figure they beheld what they envied most and what they most reviled. If their hearts went out to him it was yet true that for very small cause they might also have killed him.
Vámonos, she called. He looked up at her. He said that he had no money but she only stared at him as if she did not understand. Then she said that everyone was going and that those who had money would pay for those who did not. She said that everyone must go. There could be no thought of people being left behind. Who would permit such a thing?
There were no eyes in his sockets and the lids were pinched shut so that he wore a constant look of painful selfabsorption. As if old errors preoccupied him.
Si el mundo es ilusión la pérdida del mundo es ilusión también.
He said the wicked know that if the ill they do be of sufficient horror men will not speak against it.
He sat the horse in the road beyond the river cottonwoods and he looked off downcountry at the mountains and he looked to the west where thunderheads were standing sheared off from the thin dark horizon and he looked at the deep cyanic sky taut and vaulted over the whole of Mexico where the antique world clung to the stones and to the spores of living things and dwelt in the blood of men.
it could not be otherwise that men’s ends are dictated at their birth and that they will seek their deaths in the face of every obstacle.
What makes one a good enemy also makes one a good friend.
movement itself is a form of property.
In those faces that shall now be forever nameless among their outworn chattels there is writ a message that can never be spoken because time would always slay the messenger before he could ever arrive.
