“A: Absorbed in our discussion of immortality, we had let night fall without lighting the lamp, and we couldn't see each other's faces. With an offhandedness or gentleness more convincing than passion would have been, Macedonio Fernandez' voice said once more that the soul is immortal. He assured me that the death of the body is altogether insignificant, and that dying has to be the most unimportant thing that can happen to a man. I was playing with Macedonio's pocketknife, opening and closing it. A nearby accordion was infinitely dispatching La Comparsita, that dismaying trifle that so many people like because it's been misrepresented to them as being old... I suggested to Macedonio that we kill ourselves, so we might have our discussion without all that racket. Z: (mockingly) But I suspect that at the last moment you reconsidered. A: (now deep in mysticism) Quite frankly, I don't remember whether we committed suicide that night or not.”

“What will die with me the day I die? What pathetic or frail image will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a bay horse in a vacant lot on the corner of Sarrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?”

“A writer - and, I believe, generally all persons - must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.”

“To say good-bye is to deny separation; it is to say Today we play at going our own ways, but we'll see each other tomorrow. Men invented farewells because they somehow knew themselves to be immortal, even while seeing themselves as contingent and ephemeral.”

“This has happened and will happen again,' said Euphorbus. 'You are not lighting a pyre, you are lighting a labyrinth of flames. If all the fires I have seen were gathered together here, they would not fit on earth and the angels would be blinded. I have said this many times.' Then he cried out, because the flames had reached him.”

“If I could live again my life,In the next – I’ll try,- to make more mistakes,I won’t try to be so perfect,I’ll be more relaxed,I’ll be more full – than I am now,In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously,I’ll be less hygienic,I’ll take more risks,I’ll take more trips,I’ll watch more sunsets,I’ll climb more mountains,I’ll swim more rivers,I’ll go to more places – I’ve never been,I’ll eat more ice creams and less lima beans,I’ll have more real problems – and less imaginary ones,I was one of those people who liveprudent and prolific lives -each minute of his life,Of course that I had moments of joy – but,if I could go back I’ll try to have only good moments,If you don’t know – that’s what life is made of,Don’t lose the now!I was one of those who never goes anywherewithout a thermometer,without a hot-water bottle,and without an umbrella and without a parachute,If I could live again – I will travel light,If I could live again – I’ll try to work bare feetat the beginning of spring till the end of autumn,I’ll ride more carts,I’ll watch more sunrises and play with more children,If I have the life to live – but now I am 85,- and I know that I am dying …”

“The truth is that we all live by leaving behind; no doubt we all profoundly know that we are immortal and that sooner or later every man will do all things and know everything.”