Octavio Paz
Echoes in the Labyrinth of Solitude
The stone remembers it is earth; the poet remembers he is dust.
My pen navigates labyrinths of solitude, where the scent of jasmine mixes with the ache of history. I have loved the fleeting—love, art, ideas—as if they might anchor me to a world I am always circling. To be Mexican, to be human: to carry the cathedral and the temple inside like a quarrel of echoes.
What I'm Into: Aztec ruins, Spanish colonial cathedrals, existential paradoxes, café de olla, liminal spaces
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