Félix José Palma Macías (Sanlúcar de Barrameda, 16 June 1968 ) is a Spanish writer.
If Wells recognized any merit in [Henry] James, it was his undeniable talent for using very long sentences in order to say nothing at all. p. 516
I don't think traveling back in time on an empty stomach is a good idea.
I'm convinced the true history of our time isn't what we read in newspapers or books. . . True history is almost invisible. It flows like an underground spring. It takes place in the shadows, and in silence, George. And only a chosen few know what that history is.
Writers perform an extremely important role: they make others dream, those who are unable to dream for themselves. And everyone needs to dream. Could there be any more important job in life than that?
He had learned from experience that what he succeeded in putting down on paper was only ever a pale reflection of what he had imagined, and so he had come to accept that this would only be half as good as the original, half as acceptable as the flawless, unachievable novel that had acted as a guide, and which he imagined pulsating mockingly behind each book like some ghostly presence.
Time is a river sweeping away all that is born towards the darkest shore.
The most terrifying thing is sometimes not what we see, but rather what we are forced to imagine.
We are the authors of our own fate-we write it each day with every one of our actions.
True literature should rouse the reader, unsettle him, change his view of the world, give him a resolute push over the cliff of self-knowledge
. . . there are so many books left to read. For that reason alone it is worth going on living. Books make me happy, the help me escape from reality.
Striving to achieve a dream is never a waste of time.
Somehow this literary genre, which most people condemned, acted as a sort of counterbalance to Charles's soul; it was the ballast that prevented him from lurching into the serious or melancholy, unlike Andrew, who had been unable to adopt his cousin's casual attitude to life, and to whom everything seemed so achingly profound, imbed with that absurd solemnity that the transience of of existence conferred upon even the smallest act.
Why had his mother gone to the trouble of bringing him into the world if the most exciting moment in his life was having been made lame by a bayonet?
. . . the wrath of God pales beside that of man.
The paths that we choose don't always take us where we want to go. Sometimes they take us where we need to go.