Federico Garcia Lorca Quotes

But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.

I am the immense shadow of my tears

Pero yo ya no soy yo Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. But now I am no longer I, nor is my house any longer my house.

In Spain the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

I can’t listen to you. I can’t listen to your voice. It’s as though I’d drunk a bottle of anise and fallen asleep wrapped in a quilt of roses. It pulls me along – and I know I’m drowning – but I go on down.

If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?

لماذا وُلِدتُ بين المرايا؟ اليومُ يدورُ من حولي والليلُ يصنعُ نسخاً مني في كل النجمات. . أريد العيشَ دون رؤية نفسي وسوف أحلم بأن النملَ وأن الشوك صارا أغصاني وطيوري

If I told you the whole story it would never end...What's happened to me has happened to a thousand woman.

Vendrán las iguanas vivas a morder a los hombres que no sueñan

A light which lives on what the flames devour, a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch, a crucifixion by a single wound, a sky and earth that darken by each hour, a sob of blood whose red ribbon adorns a lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch, a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef, a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest-- this is the wreath of love, this bed of thorns is where I dream of you stealing my rest, haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief. I sought the peak of prudence, but I found the hemlock-brimming valley of your heart, and my own thirst for bitter truth and art. - Stigmata of Love

ليس هناك من ليلة لا يشعر فيها المرء، بابتسامة ناس بلا وجوه،وهو يعطي قبلة

Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.

Verde que te quiero verde

Pero yo ire, aunque un sol de alacranes me coma la sien.

لا تحملي ذكراك. دعيها وحيدة في صدري. ارتعاش لكرز أبيض، في عذاب كانون الثاني. يفصلني عن الأموات

يا حب ، يا عدوي، كيف يعض جذرك المر.

دوماً .. دوماً .. يابستانَ لوعتي جسدكِ يهربُ مني دوماً الدم في عروقكِ وسط فمي وفمكِ دونَ نورٍ يرقبُ موتي.

في الصباح الأخضر أردت أن أكون قلباً قلباً . وفي المساءِ اليانع أردت أن أكونَ عندليباً عندليباً . ( ياروح.. كوني بلونِ البرتقال ياروح.. كوني بلونِ الحب ) . في الصباح المفعمْ أردت أن أكون أنا كالقلبْ . وفي نهايةِ المساء أردت أن يكون صوتي العندليب . ياروح.. كوني بلون البرتقال ياروح.. كوني بلون الحب

The little boy was looking for his voice. (The king of the crickets had it.) In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. I do not want it for speaking with; I will make a ring of it so that he may wear my silence on his little finger In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. (The captive voice, far away, put on a cricket's clothes.) - The Little Mute Boy Translated by William S. Merwin

Quixote shines from Lorca and Picasso, From Dalí and El Greco, From the gloomy 'View of Toledo.' He was born before Cervantes.

أريد العودة الى الطفولة ومن الطفولة الى الظل أتذهب ايها العندليب ؟ اذهب اريد ان أعود الى الظل ومن الظل الى الزهرة أتذهب ايها الشذى ......... أريد أن اعود الى الزهرة ومن الزهرة قلب

Una pausa en mi escritura para ver que vuelve a ser madrugada, que sigues en el firmamento. Que no mueres, auque te maten. Federico...

There are dewdrops on the nightingale's wings, bright beads of moon distilled by hope. On the marble fountain is the kiss of water, dream of humble stars...

Al gemir la santa niña, quiebra el cristal de las copas. La rueda afila cuchillos y garfios de aguda comba: brama el toro de los yunques, y Mérida se corona de nardos casi despiertos y tallos de zarzamora.

Nietzscheja sem prežvečil in prebavil v treh dneh. Po tem velikem zalogaju mi je ostala samo še ena podrobnost osebnosti tega filozofa, še zadnji oreh, ki ga je bilo treba streti: njegovi brki! Federico Garcia Lorca, ki je bil očaran nad Hitlerjevimi brki, je pozneje izjavil, da "so brki tragična konstanta moškega obraza". Celo z brki sem nameraval preseči Nietzscheja! Moji že ne bodo zamorjeni, katastrofični, obteženi z wagnerjansko glasbo in meglo. Ne! Moji bodo zašiljeni, imperialistični, ultraracianalistični in usmerjeni k nebu, kot vertikalni misticizem, kot španski vertikalni sindikati.

De todas as pessoas que conheci, Federico vem em primeiro lugar. Não falo nem de seu teatro nem de sua poesia, falo dele. A obra-prima era ele. Parece inclusive difícil imaginar alguém comparável. Quer ao piano imitando Chopin, quer improvisando uma pantomima, um esquete teatral, era irresistível. Podia ler qualquer coisa, a beleza sempre jorrava de seus lábios. Ele tinha a paixão, a alegria, a juventude. Era uma labareda. Quando o conheci, na Residência dos Estudantes, eu era um atleta provinciano bem tacanho. Pela força da nossa amizade, ele me transformou, me fez conhecer outro mundo. Devo a ele mais do que consigo dizer. Seus restos mortais nunca foram encontrados. Lendas circularam sobre sua morte, e Dalí – de um jeito bem ignóbil – chegou a falar em crime homossexual, o que é totalmente absurdo. Na realidade, Federico morreu porque era poeta. Nessa época, do outro lado, ouvia-se gritar: “Morte à inteligência!

...My voice is stained with bloody light, and I see irises dry up at its touch; in my song I wear the finery of a white-faced clown. Love, sweet Love, hides under a spider. The sun, another spider, hides me under legs of gold. I will not find my fortune, for I am like Love himself, whose arrows are tears, and whose quiver is the heart...

Ovo je prolog… Knjiga je pjesama kao umrla jesen: Stihovi su lišće crno na zemlji bijeloj. … A pjesnik razumije sve što je nerazumljivo i stvari što se mrze on drugama zove. Njemu je znano da su sve staze nemoguće i zbog toga noću po njima tiho hoda. … Poezija je gorčina, nebeski med što teče iz nevidljiva saća što ga stvaraju duše. Ljupke knjige stihova zvijezde su što prolaze kroz nijemu tišinu u kraljevstvo Ničega, ispisujući po nebu svoje strofe od srebra.

¡Cigarra! ¡Dichosa tú!, que sobre el lecho de tierra mueres borracha de luz. Tú sabes de las campiñas el secreto de la vida, y el cuento del hada vieja que nacer hierba sentía en ti quedóse guardado. ¡Cigarra! ¡Dichosa tú!, pues mueres bajo la sangre de un corazón todo azul. La luz es Dios que desciende, y el sol brecha por donde se filtra. [...]

Els Quatre Gats was just a five-minute walk from our house and one of my favourite haunts. My parents had met there in 1932, and I attributed my one-way ticket into this world in part to the old cafe's charms. Stone dragons guarded a lamplit facade. Inside, voices seemed to echo with shadows of other times. Accountants, dreamers, and would-be geniuses shared tables with the spectres of Pablo Picasso, Isaac Albeniz, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Salvador Dali. There any poor devil could pass for a historical figure for the price of a small coffee.

Look at the stars, look at the moon streaked in the water, look at the Picasso face in the sky that breathes the words of Lorca on the cheeks of the crossed ones who long to touch, too confused to wander.

A dandy," wrote Charles Baudelaire, "must be looking in his mirror at all times, waking and sleeping." Dali could easily have become the living proof of Baudelaire's dictum. But the literal mirror was not enough for him. Dali needed mirrors of many kinds: his pictures, his admirers, newspapers and magazines and television. And even that still left him unsatisfied. So one Christmas he took a walk in the streets of New York carrying a bell. He would ring it whenever he felt people were not paying enough attention to him. "The thought of not being recognised was unbearable." True to himself to the bitter end, he delighted in following Catalonian television's bulletins on his state of health during his last days alive (in Quiron hospital in Barcelona); he wanted to hear people talking about him, and he also wanted to know whether his health would revive or whether he would be dying soon. At the age of six he wanted to be a female cook - he specified the gender. At seven he wanted to be Napoleon. "Ever since, my ambition has been continually on the increase, as has my megalomania: now all I want to be is Salvador Dali. But the closer I get to my goal, the further Salvador Dali drifts away from me." He painted his first picture in 1910 at the age of six. At ten he discovered Impressionist art, and at fourteen the Pompiers (a 19th century group of academic genre painters, among them Meissonier, Detaille and Moreau). By 1927 he was Dali, and the poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca, a friend of his youth, wrote an 'Ode to Salvador Dali.' Years later Dali claimed that Lorca had been very attracted to him and had tride to sodomize him, but had not quite managed it. Dali's thirst for scandal was unquenchable. His parents had named him Salvador "because he was the chosen one who was come to save painting from the" deadly menace of abstract art, academic Surrealism, Dadaism, and any kind of anarchic "ism" whatsoever." If he had lived during the Renaissance, his genius would have been recognized at an earlier stage and indeed considered normal. But in the twentieth century, which Dali damned as stupid, he was thought provocative, a thorn in the flesh. To this day there are many who misunderstand the provocativeness and label him insane. But Dali repeatedly declared: "... the sole difference between me and a madman is the fact that I am not mad!" Dali also said: "The difference between the Surrealists and me is that I am a Surrealist" - which is perfectly true. And he also claimed: "I have the universal curiosity of Renaissance men, and my mental jaws are constantly at work.

Tracy K. Smith, in her essay “Survival in Two Worlds at Once: Federico Garcia Lorca and Duende” argues that we poets can’t assume that the goblin will roost in our art. If there’s duende in our poems, it’s a happy accident, a result of living in such a way that makes the goblin curious enough to visit. She loves the concept of duende, she says, because it supposes that we don’t write poems to win the reader’s approval: we write poems in order to engage in the perilous yet necessary struggle to inhabit ourselves—our real selves, the ones we barely recognize—more completely. It is then that the duende beckons, promising to impart “something newly created, like a miracle,” then it winks inscrutably and begins its game of feint and dodge, lunge and parry, goad and shirk. . . . You’ll get your miracle, but only if you can decipher the music of the battle, only if you’re willing to take risk after risk. If we write poems that face our unique struggles, attempting to find “our real selves,” duende might grant us a “miracle”: that is, the poem. Duende, it seems, doesn’t care who the artist is or what they believe, but only that the work reeks of human struggle. Of feelings exposed. Of the “bare, forked animal” smeared in blood and mud.