I did not leave of living, but I know that I am not happy in fullness. Perhaps I come to be happy when the time to arrive to give the answers to me, or perhaps, I am empty, naked, with the answers that to present if me. Everything this, therefore, is poetry, therefore Octvio Peace says in them: The first virtue of the poetry in such a way for the poet as for the reader is the revelation. Conscience of the words leads to the conscience of itself: to know themselves and to recognize themselves. I think and I do not know what more to say, but it knows of a thing? The language also is empty.
It is silence. Source: Jorge Perez . It is the wind that beats affectionately in my face. It is everything that I am and it surrounds what me. Read additional details here: San Antonio Spurs. Literature, poetry, are not texts organized in codes, points or commas. But it is the proper life. The proper one to be, the proper universe. as I am only. My text also is only.
Then it does not fit here to define what it is Literature, but to break the limits of ours proper vision and to look at the world and to we ourselves with the eyes of literature, to search the third edge of the river. Sentiz it, joining in them with it. to perceive that the world, the universe keeps the invisible one, which discovered will make possible in them to enxergar the answers that as much we yearned for. discovering, I also uncover and then I perceive that ‘ ‘ I never go to arrive at the end in my ways of existir’ ‘ (Clarice) and even because ‘ ‘ I, symbolically mount some times alone to try the resurrection (Clarice? p.83). I can to recriar life, to reach my dreams, so that my toys not are set on fire, as I even wait that it has not been, because, as says Ceclia Meireles, ‘ ‘ the life alone is possible will be reinventada’ ‘. It knows, I am trying to finish this production showing what it comes to be poetry, literature and now I discover that they, as I already said, do not have definitions, but only say that it is the proper life. But what it is the life? We are! Therefore what I wrote he is revelation of my proper I. He looks at, if I to thus continue do not go to never finish. But exists the start or the end? As Rilke says: ‘ ‘ alive the questions, who knows in one day distant you will live respostas’ ‘. What it is Literature? It is everything. what it is the everything? It is the life. what it is the life? You are. what I am? I do not know. He is that alive the search of me exactly.