60 phrases by Adélia Prado for those who are passionate about literature

Whoever carries the sea within its limits is fond of the sea.

Woman is foldable. I’m.

My sadness has no pedigree, my desire for joy, its root goes to my thousand grandfather.

There is always a reason, although there is no explanation.

I don’t want a knife or cheese. I want hunger.

My heart is unfolding the cloths, expanding warm, going around the world, snapping its fingers for person and animal.

Pardon the word, I want to get on with life.

I myself don’t understand my enormous patience for sitting around, just thinking, thinking and feeling.

I think that God is a human projection, it is an infinite desire that we have for worship, and for something that suspends us with the absolute sense.

What memory loves, remains eternal. I love you with memory, imperishable.

I went to sleep a few times so happy that, if I knew my strength, I would levitate. In others, so much was the sadness that I wrote verses.

The dream filled the night. It spilled over into my day. It filled my life and that’s what I’m going to live with, because dreams don’t die.

I digress, when what I want is just to say I love you.

Pain has nothing to do with bitterness. I think that everything that happens is made for us to learn more and more, it is to teach us how to live. folding. Every day richer in humanity.

They give me porridge, hot broth, they give me prudent advice, what I want is the silky tip of your cheeky mustache, your hot mouth.

Languages are imperfect for poems to exist.

On one occasion, my father painted the whole house bright orange. For a long time we lived in a house, as he said, constantly dawning.

Beauty is one of the most comforting values there is.

For my heart’s desire, the sea is a drop.

We thirst for infinity and permanence, so this being that ensures the permanence of things is what I call God. It’s the absolute.

I only get better when it rains.

I’m at the beginning of my despair, and I only see two ways: either I become crazy, or I become a saint.

As soon as it gets dark I’ll date. What an orderly and good world! dating who? My soul was born wedded to an invisible husband.

I want later, when I live again, the resurrection and the life hiding the divided time, I want the whole time.

If I could, today, I would sweep, that’s right, sweep everyone with a broom, as if they were specks.

The resting butterfly is either God or nothing.

Carl Jung said that he returned his patients to their religion of origin: the seed of our symbolic life.

As for me, I give thanks for what I now know and, more than I forgive, I love.

I can’t handle my old age if I don’t have a faith.

Ideal I have to love as someone says things: I want to sleep with you, straighten your hair, squeeze the tiny mountains of white matter from your back. For now I’m screaming and scared. Few people like it. Few people like it.

How am I going to want peace in the world with a war in my heart?

Love hurts me it’s under the arm, from a gap between the ribs, it hits my heart it’s through this inclined path.

Love uses the mail, the mail cheats, the letter doesn’t arrive, love doesn’t know if it is or isn’t.

God sometimes takes away my poetry and I look at stones and I see stones.

I suffer because of my collector-archaeologist spirit. I want to put the beautiful one in a box with a key to open it from time to time and look at it.

The more you discover, the more the universe expands. That’s God.

God is more beautiful than me. And he’s not young. This yes, he is consolation.

I want you in front of me, static, and me forever looking, looking, looking.

Comfort me, boy. Say a sentence, made with my name, so that the chrysanthemums burn and I have a merry Christmas!

The finest thing in the world is feeling.

Life is very beautiful, just a kiss and the delicate gear moves, a cosmic need protects us.

So I turned to her and said: ah, nothing, silly, it’s also like that, if you can, well, if you don’t, amen, go ahead.

My God, give me five years, give me your hand, cure me of being big.

Today, we have the ideology of perpetual youth, which goes through medicine, gymnastics, plastic surgery and final despair, because nothing responds to our deep human hunger, which is of a spiritual nature.

Here you go hungry, here you hate, here you are happy, in the midst of miraculous inventions.

All that we believe and that makes us happy is a mystery.

The most sad things will disappear when the trumpet sounds. We will rise like gods, with the beauty of things that never sinned, like trees, like stones, exact and worthy of love.

Love for me is being able to allow the one I love to exist as such, as himself.

The most ordinary things dominate us. That can’t!

He loves and doesn’t even know what he loves anymore.

I want later, when I live again, the resurrection and the life hiding the divided time, I want the whole time.

It wasn’t anger. It was a pain mark.

Everyday life is already heroic and we have to accept it. Am I going to have a tantrum with God? Be poor, be rich.

People preach about love, but love is something that lives in the dust. It is in the grime of life that we prove things. Those who don’t want to face it are missing the treasure of life, because that’s where I’m tested.

You didn’t tell me about love. That word of luxury.

What I was able to offer without blemish was my crying for beauty or tiredness, an rooted tooth, the prejudice in favor of all forms of baroque in music and the Rio de Janeiro that I visited once and left me suspended.