Fireworks In Spanish Quotes

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He encouraged me to take one more deep puff and hold it in, so I did, and the smoke traveled down on top of my esophagus and then did a U-turn up into where my brain was supposed to be. At first it felt like fireworks, and then I began to feel like I was floating down a stream. I liked it. And I took another puff and studied my ass off. The next morning, however, I would fail my very first Spanish exam, because I would not remember how to conjugate anything except Abraham.
Terry McMillan (I Almost Forgot About You)
Like Italian or Portuguese or Catalan, Spanish is a wordy language, bountiful and flamboyant, with a formidable emotional range. But for these same reasons, it is conceptually inexact. The work of our greatest prose writers, beginning with Cervantes, is like a splendid display of fireworks in which every idea marches past, preceded and surrounded by a sumptuous court of servants, suitors, and pages, whose function is purely decorative. In our prose, color, temperature, and music are as important as ideas and, in some cases-Lezama Lima or Valle Inclan, for example-more so. There is nothing objectionable about these typically Spanish rhetorical excesses. They express the profound nature of a people, a way of being in which the emotional and the concrete prevail over the intellectual and the abstract. This is why Valle Inclan, Alfonso Reyes, Alejo Carpentier, and Camilo Jose Cela, to cite four magnificent prose writers, are so verbose in their writing. This does not make their prose either less skillful or more superficial than that of Valery or T.S. Eliot. They are simply quite different, just as Latin Americans are different from the English and the French. To us, ideas are formulated and captured more effectively when fleshed out with emotion and sensation or in some way incorporated into concrete reality, into life-far more than they are in logical discourse. That perhaps is why we have such a rich literature and such a dearth of philosophers.
Mario Vargas Llosa
This Paris is evoked in the alluringly titled Le Rendez-vous des étrangers (Where Strangers Meet) by Elsa Triolet, Louis Aragon’s muse—a Paris in which the Spanish Picasso, Russian Chagall, and Italian Giacometti all felt at home, and with good reason: The people who gathered in Montparnasse formed a sort of foreign legion, though the only crime they had on their conscience was that of being far from home, far from their own milieu . . . Paris had handed over this small corner to us . . . This place for the displaced was as Parisian as Notre-Dame and the Eiffel Tower. And when, like a firework, genius erupted out of this small crowd, it was still the Parisian sky that received its reflected glory.
Ollivier Pourriol (The French Art of Not Trying Too Hard)
Young as the Morning, Old as the Sea" "I wanna lay by a lake in Norway, I I wanna walk through Swedish fields of green I wanna see the forests of Finland, I I wanna sail on a boat on the Baltic sea I wanna feel the Russian winter, I I wanna go to my Polish grandmother's home I wanna see Hungarian lanterns, I I wanna walk on a road that leads to Rome I wanna be free as the winds that blow past me Clear as the air that I breath Young as the morning And old as the sea I wanna lose myself in the Scottish highlands The west coast of Ireland The Cornish breeze I wanna rest my bones in the Spanish sunshine The Italian coastline is calling me To be free as the birds that fly past me Light as the fish in the sea To be wise as the mountains And tall as the trees I wanna be sunny and bright as a sunrise Happy and full as the moon I'm fleeting like fireworks fading too soon
Michael Hague
Young as the Morning, Old as the Sea" "I wanna lay by a lake in Norway, I I wanna walk through Swedish fields of green I wanna see the forests of Finland, I I wanna sail on a boat on the Baltic sea I wanna feel the Russian winter, I I wanna go to my Polish grandmother's home I wanna see Hungarian lanterns, I I wanna walk on a road that leads to Rome I wanna be free as the winds that blow past me Clear as the air that I breath Young as the morning And old as the sea I wanna lose myself in the Scottish highlands The west coast of Ireland The Cornish breeze I wanna rest my bones in the Spanish sunshine The Italian coastline is calling me To be free as the birds that fly past me Light as the fish in the sea To be wise as the mountains And tall as the trees I wanna be sunny and bright as a sunrise Happy and full as the moon I'm fleeting like fireworks fading too soon
Michael Rosenberg