- I seek a form that my style cannot discover, a bud of thought that wants to be a rose.
- The America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa, the aromatic America of Columbus, Catholic America, Spanish America, the America where noble Cuauhtemoc said: 'I am not on a bed of roses' -our America, trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love: O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls, our America lives. And dreams. And loves. And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.
- The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient; the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing: there is no pain as great as being alive, no burden heavier than that of conscious life.
- Pity for him who one day looks upon his inward sphinx and questions it. He is lost.
- My pick is working deep in the soil of this unknown America, turning out gold and opals and precious stones, an altar, a broken statue. And the Muse divines the meaning of the hieroglyphics. The strange life of a vanished people emerges from the mist of time.
- Si pequena es la patria, uno grande la suena.