Antonio Machado Quotes

The deepest words of the wise man teach us the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows or the sound of the water when it is flowing.

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path. . .

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

Beyond living and dreaming there is something more important: waking up.

I love Jesus, who said to us: Heaven and earth will pass away. When heaven and earth have passed away, my word will remain. What was your word, Jesus? Love? Forgiveness? Affection? All your words were one word: Wakeup.

I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

Traveler, there is no path, the path must be forged as you walk.

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.

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.

Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits

What the poet is searching for is not the fundamental I but the deep you.

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.

Only a fool thinks price and value are the same.

All uncertainty is fruitfull ... so long as it is accompanied by the wish to understand

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

Death is something we shouldn't fear because, while we are, death isn't, and when death is, we aren't.

Beware of the community in which blasphemy does not exist: underneath, atheism runs rampant.

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. (Walk, there is no path, the path is made by walking.)

The truly erotic sensibility, in evoking the image of woman, never omits to clothe it. The robing and disrobing: that is the true traffic of love.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Mankind owns four things that are no good at sea: rudder, anchor, oars and the fear of going down.

The absence of vices adds so little to the sum of one's virtues.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence

Those who deny the existence of the truth postulate the truth of their denial and plainly contradict themselves.

I. Don't trace out your profile-- forget your side view-- all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren't.

My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I’m not a sad man, and I don’t believe I sadden anyone else. In other words, the fact that I don’t put my philosophy into practice saves me from its evil spell, or, rather, my faith in the human race is stronger then my intellectual analysis of it; there lies the fountain of youth in which my heart is continually bathing.

My philosophy is fundamentally sad, but I'm not a sad man, and I don't believe I sadden anyone else.

No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.

Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human.

What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

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?

Life is the path you beat while you walk it It's the walking that beats the path It is not the path that makes the walk

The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.

There is no way; we make the road by walking it.

Death is something we don't have to fear, since as long as we exist death doesn't and when it does we don't.

The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.

There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.

All our efforts must tend towards light.

And to walk through life in dreams out of love for the hand that guides us.

Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way- Only foam trails to the sea.

It is good knowing that glasses are to drink from; the bad thing is not to know what thirst is for.

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road-- Only wakes upon the sea. Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar.

Pathmaker, there is no path; You make the path by walking, By walking you make the Path

By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind sees the path

In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.

Wherever learning breeds specialists, the sum of human culture is enhanced thereby. That is the illusion and consolation of specialists.

Hell is the bloodcurdling mansion of time, in whose profoundest circle Satan himself waits, winding a gargantuan watch in his hand.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.

There are a lot of doubts over the size and effect of new competitors in the cellular sector.