Antonio Machado
Antonio Machado
Antonio Machado, in full Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado y Ruiz, was a Spanish poet and one of the leading figures of the Spanish literary movement known as the Generation of '98...
NationalitySpanish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth26 July 1875
CitySeville, Spain
CountrySpain
thinking language
The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.
flower garden wind
The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
light understanding doe
No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.
marriage dream hands
Walk through life in dreams out of love of the hand that leads us.
littles vices add
The absence of vices adds so little to the sum of one's virtues.
running community atheism
Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.
thinking fool values
Only a fool thinks price and value are the same.
long decision wish
All uncertainty is fruitfull ... so long as it is accompanied by the wish to understand
men judging advice
Avoid pulpits, platforms, stages and pedestals. Keep to the hard ground. It is the only way you can judge your approximate status as a man.
Death is something we shouldn't fear because, while we are, death isn't, and when death is, we aren't.
dream thirds
Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.
success sweet heart
I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.
fire ashes fingers
I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.
sea track looks
XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.