Pablo Neruda Famous Works Novels & Stories

His smile could light up the entire library. He settles into the leather wingback, my favourite chair, the one I curl up in when I want to feel held, and opens his book. I catch a glimpse of the cover. Pablo Neruda. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. “Why are you reading that?” He looks up at me. “What?” I clear my throat. What the fuck are you doing Vanessa? I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Neruda. Why are you reading it?”

It is hoped that it was his personal symbol for desire and hope. The famous Colombian novelist Gabriel Garcia Marques once termed him 'the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language. In 1919, he participated in the literary contest Juegos Florales del Maule, where he won third place for his poem (Nocturno ideal). By mid-1920, he was a published author of poetry, prose, and journalism. In 1927, out of financial desperation, he took an honorary consulship in Rangoon, later, he worked in Ceylon, Java, and Singapore. Pablo Neruda wrote a poem about Rangoon as he had seen it. It goes this way.

She spent a few seconds to realize that she was being addressed by the famous painter. "You're Adam Ocampo!" She replied with a shock and embarrassment on her face. "I-I'm sorry for causing you trouble. I'm in a hurry for my literature class." Her eyes landed at the book Adam was holding. "Yeah, that's my favorite. I love reading Pablo Neruda's poems."

Never Again 🌷 “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” -Pablo Neruda ~•~ •X A V I E R•

That’s how he beats it. I pull out another book from a lower shelf. It's much smaller, old and worn-out. A collection of poetry, Neruda. I open it gently. The fragile pages are marked with tiny sticky notes, and several passages are heavily underlined. He has a heart, but he hides it.

Stories of tides that never forgot. One morning in early March, when the almond trees were heavy with blossom again, she found an old envelope tucked inside the pages of a book he had been reading the winter before he died. The book was a worn copy of Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, the spine cracked open to poem fifteen. The envelope was yellowed, unsealed, addressed to her in his careful handwriting. She carried it to the terrace. Sat in his chair. Opened it slowly.

"You’ll know that I don’t love you and that I love you since in two ways is life, the word is a wing of silence, The fire is half cold. I love you to start loving you, to restart the infinite and to never stop loving you: so I don’t love you yet. I love you and I don’t love you as I have in my hands the keys of fortune and an uncertain fate, unfortunate. My love has two lives to love you. That’s why I love you when I don’t love you and that’s why I love you when I love you." Pablo Neruda. As much as I didn’t want to admit it: I’m addicted to Mr. X. He always gave me good morning and good night, always kept himself present, and when he could not, always found a way to talk to me.