Goya Quotes

The paintings of Francis Bacon to my eye are very beautiful. The paintings of Bosch or Goya are to my eye very beautiful. I've also stood in front of those same paintings with people who've said, 'let's get on to the Botticellis as soon as possible.' I have lingered, of course.

Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters; united with it, she is the mother of the arts and the origin of marvels.

Fantasy abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters

1.° Dios no existe. 2.° Dios existe y es un canalla. 3.° Dios existe, pero a veces duerme: sus pesadillas son nuestra existencia. 4.° Dios existe, pero tiene accesos de locura: esos accesos son nuestra existencia. 5.° Dios no es omnipresente, no puede estar en todas partes. A veces está ausente ¿en otros mundos? ¿En otras cosas? 6.° Dios es un pobre diablo, con un problema demasiado complicado para sus fuerzas. Lucha con la materia como un artista con su obra. Algunas veces, en algún momento logra ser Goya, pero generalmente es un desastre. 7.° Dios fue derrotado antes de la Historia por el Príncipe de las Tinieblas. Y derrotado, convertido en presunto diablo, es doblemente desprestigiado, puesto que se le atribuye este universo calamitoso.

El sueño de la razón produce monstruos (The sleep of reason produces monsters)

I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business: Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing.

Through Sade and Goya, the Western world received the possibility of transcending its reason in violence....

El sueno de la razon produce monstuos

[Who are the artists you admire, Surrealist or otherwise?] Remedios Varo, Max Ernst, Charlotte Salomon, Goya, Aubrey Beardsley. Beardsley is not so much about the impossible as he is about freaks and deformities, but those are interesting to me too.

Always lines, never forms! But where do they find these lines in Nature? For my part I see only forms that are lit up and forms that are not. There is only light and shadow.

Esos hijoputas ya son difíciles como aliados, así que cuando sepan que estamos fusilando a los paisanos para que los pinte al óleo ese tipo, Goya, figúrese la que nos pueden organizar.

Goya’s savage verve, his harsh, brutal genius, captivated Des Esseintes. On the other hand, the universal admiration his works had won rather put him off, and for years he had refrained from framing them, for fear that if he hung them up, the first idiot who saw them would might feel obliged to dishonour them with a few inanities and go into stereotyped ecstasies over them.

SeaMurgh ne teen baar phosphorus ki batti band ki aur goya hua: Tu theek kehta hai main janta hun sirf insaan sakin hai, kayinaat ki baqi tamam cheezain mutaharrik hain kyun ke insaan Matlub hai aur baqi her shay Taalib... Afsos insaan ne apnay aap ko Matlub ki jaga se hataa ker Taalib bana liya, isi liye gerdish main hai. Werna wo is qadar deewanay.pan ka shikar na hota aur ab tak Allah ki raza ko paa leta

El Sueno de la razon produce monstrous. (The sleep of reason breeds monsters)

A man returns to die, between four walls, with the dawn, a collar of iron around the neck, to the withers, the tongue hanging ... as on the Goya print.

You wouldn’t love a brand-new ship ? I don’t know … a lot of memories onboard the Goya. Rachel smiled softly. Well, as my mom used to say, sooner or later we’ve all got to let go of our past.

The first depiction of female pubic hair in Western art wasn’t until Goya’s The Naked Maja in the late 19th century, and this was apparently outrageous even though just a few wisps are barely visible.

But aesthetic value does not rise from the work's apparent ability to predict a future: we do not admire Cézanne because of the Cubists drew on him. Value rises from deep in the work itself - from its vitality, its intrinsic qualities, its address to the senses, intellect, and imagination; from the uses it makes of the concrete body of tradition. In art there is no progress, only fluctuations of intensity. Not even the greatest doctor in Bologna in the 17th century knew as much a bout the human body as today's third-year medical student. But nobody alive today can draw as well as Rembrandt or Goya.

The sleep of reason produces monsters

The slumber of reason breeds monsters.

What is awful is at once appealing and repulsive, it fascinates and generates disgust, and those who succumb to the awful can only escape it at the price of ennui, of boredom.

Po tom višku koji nosi svako umetničko delo kao neki trag tajanstvene saradnje između prirode i umetnika, vidi se demonsko poreklo umetnosti. Postoji legenda da će Antihrist, kada se bude pojavio na zemlji, stvarati sve što je i Bog stvorio, samo sa većom veštinom i sa više savršenstva [...] Možda je umetnik preteča Antihrista. Možda se hiljade i hiljade nas "igramo Antihrista", kao što se deca, usred mira, igraju rata.

The reason for which Picasso was compelled to resort to signs and allegories should now be clear enough: his utter political helplessness in the face of a historical situation which he set out to record; his titanic effort to confront a particular historical event with an allegedly eternal truth; his desire to give hope and comfort and to provide a happy ending, to compensate for the terror, the destruction, and inhumanity of the event. Picasso did not see what Goya had already seen, namely, that the course of history can be changed only by historical means and only if men shape their own history instead of acting as the automaton of an earthly power or an allegedly eternal idea.

El sueño de la razón produce monstruos

That's sort of what happened with Cassie and me. I guess I was Goya, just doing my thing, and she was the French Revolution.

His [Francisco Goya's] debt to the Christianity of the eighteenth century is contained in the idea that politics was just adopting from the Gospels: the conviction that man has a right to justice. Such a statement would seem utterly conceited to a Roman, who would doubtless have looked upon the Disasters as we look upon photographs of the amphitheatre...But if Goya thought that man has not come onto the earth to be cut to pieces he thought that he must have come here for something. Is it to live in joy and honour? Not only that; it is to come to terms with the world. And the message he never ceased to preach, a message underlined by war, is that man only comes to terms with the world by blinding himself with childishness.

i remember el salvador, /n it’s horse shit, like i tell you. i stopped chasing the messiahs /n madonnas - wised up, set myself straight. i’ve laid em /n balled em in every half-way house south of biloxi, every 10 cent bed west of tulsa, fucked /n slobbered myself stupid on swingsets, greyhounds /n gas station floors the world over. i’ve split em in half from head to ass in elevator shafts, plus-size fitting rooms, in the lobbies of sheraton inns /n kfc parking lots - fucked em everywhere every way that i could. someone else can fuck em now. i’m done w/ el salvador. i know her militias her perfume, munitions, her missing hubcaps /n posters of paris. i know her goyas, her barricades, her paintboxes /n bookshelves of baudelaire, her banners, her bullshit /n paris can keep her.

the representations of old women during the witch-hunts continue to haunt us, from Goya’s witches to those of Walt Disney. One way or another, old age in women remains ugly, shameful, threatening and satanic.

La fantasía abandonada de la razón produce monstruos imposibles: unida con ella es madre de las artes y origen de las maravillas" -Explicación de la estampa "El sueño de la razón" de Francisco Goya del manuscrito del Museo del Prado

Linke und Rechte sind durch die verschiedenen Deutungen charakterisiert, die sie dem zweideutigen Motto geben, das Goya für ein Capricho wählt: "El sueño de la razón produce monstruos." Die Linke übersetzt: schlafen. Die Rechte: träumen.

Sola en la cocina escucho en bucle 'Me quedo contigo' cantado por Rosalía con un vestido rojo, en la sala de los Goya. "Me enamorao, te quiero y te quiero' me revuelve y me hace llorar -¿por quién? Por el amor mismo-. Lo que me emociona y duele es mi propia capacidad de amar. Es el reconocimiento, y la memoria de los caminos de la pasión. Conocer la pasión, saber de su existencia y su acecho. Como un quiebre brutal de la vida hacia su éxtasis, que se arquea y se dirige y que nunca llega a completarse. Soy una flor curvada hacia la lengua de un sol presente en su quemadura algunos mediodías, siempre demasiado lejano para hacer arder. ¿Quiero arder de una vez por todas? Una flor jorobada y retorcida, alargando todas sus células en su petición

I have a tiny little secret hope that, after a decent period of silence and prose, I will find myself in some almost impossible life situation and will respond to this with outcries of rage, rage and love, such as the world has never heard before. Like Yeats's great outburst at the end of his life. This comes out of a feeling that endowment is a very small part of achievement. I would rate it about fifteen or twenty percent, Then you have historical luck, personal luck, health, things like that, then you have hard work, sweat. And you have ambition. The incredible difference between the achievement of A and the achievement of B is that B wanted it, so he made all kinds of sacrifices. A could have had it, but he didn’t give a damn.[...] But what I was going on to say is that I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business. Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing. And I think that what happens in my poetic work in the future will probably largely depend not on my sitting calmly on my ass as I think, "Hmm, hmm, a long poem again? Hmm," but on being knocked in the face, and thrown flat, and given cancer, and all kinds of other things short of senile dementia. At that point, I'm out, but short of that, I don't know. I hope to be nearly crucified,

 You would have loved Jackson. He was a downtown guy, a real Bohemian. No banker’s hours for him, believe you me. Every night the drinking and the talking and the fighting and the dancing and the staying up late; like everyone’s romantic idea of what an artist ought to be: the anti-Rothko... At his worst you still loved him though; you loved him because he loved art so much... He thought it mattered. He thought painting mattered... Does not the poignancy stop your heart?... How could this story not end in tragedy?  Goya said, 'We have Art that we may not perish from Truth.'... Pollock saw some truth. Then he didn’t have art to protect him any more... Who could survive that?  I was walking up to my house last week and this couple was passing. Lady looks in the window, says: 'I wonder who owns all the Rothkos.'... Just like that I’m a noun. A Rothko.

A Belgian journalist, struggling to describe the scene, had said that it resembled a cross between a permanent mass wake, an ongoing grad night for at least a dozen subcultures unheard of before the disaster, the black market cafes of occupied Paris, and Goya's idea of a dance party (assuming Goya had been Japanese and smoked freebase methamphetamine, which along with endless quantities of alcohol was clearly the Western World's substance of choice). It was, the Belgian said, as though the city, in its convolsion and grief, had spontaneously and necessarily generated this hidden pocket universe of the soul, its few unbroken windows painted over with black rubber aquarium paint. There would be no view of the ruptured city. As the reconstruction began around it, it had already become a benchmark in Tokyo's psychic history, an open secret, an urban legend.

- Vidite, umetnik, to je "sumnjivoo lice", maskiran čovek u sumraku, putnik sa lažnim pasošem. Lice pod maskom je divno, njegov rang je mnogo viši nego što u pasošu piše, ali šta to mari? Ljudi ne vole tu neizvesnost ni tu zakukuljenost, i zato ga zovu sumnjivim i dvoličnim. A sumnja, kad se jednom rodi, ne poznaje granica. Sve i kad bi umetnik mogao nekako da objavi svetu svoju pravu ličnost i svoje pozvanje, ko bi mu verovao da je to njegova poslednja reč? I kad bi pokazao svoj pravi pasoš, ko bi verovao da nema u džepu sakriven neki treći? I kad bi skinuo masku u želji da se iskreno nasmeje i pravo pogleda, bilo bi još uvek ljudi koji bi ga molili da bude potpuno iskren i poverljiv i da zbaci i tu poslednju masku koja toliko liči na ljudsko biće. Umetnikova sudbina je da u životu pada iz jedne neiskrenosti u drugu i da vezuje protivrečnost za protivrečnost. I oni mirni i srećni kod kojih se to najmanje vidi i oseća, i oni se u sebi stalno kolebaju i sastavljaju bez prestanka dva kraja koja se nikad sastaviti ne daju.

Die young, stay pretty. Blondie, right? We think of it as a modern phenomenon, the whole youth thing, but really, consider all those great portraits, some of them centuries old. Those goddesses of Botticelli and Rubens, Goya's Maja, Madame X. Consider Manet's Olympia, which shocked at the time, he having painted his mistress with the same voluptuous adulation generally reserved for the aristocratic good girls who posed for depictions of goddesses. Hardly anyone knows anymore, and no one cares, that Olympia was Manet's whore; although there's every reason to imagine that, in life, she was foolish and vulgar and not entirely hygienic (Paris in the 1860s being what it was). She's immortal now, she's a great historic beauty, having been scrubbed clean by the attention of a great artist. And okay, we can't help but notice that Manet did not choose to paint her twenty years later, when time had started doing its work. The world has always worshipped nascence. Goddamn the world.

It’s the only place where you can find a giant vat of peeled garlic, because it’s the only place that truly understands how much garlic you’ll need for the kind of food your people eat. H Mart is freedom from the single-aisle “ethnic” section in regular grocery stores. They don’t prop Goya beans next to bottles of sriracha here.

Невежество поощряется, дабы народ не мог узнать, где причина его страданий.

Eu sunt un gânditor posesiv.Mi-ar fi plăcut să cred că Goya a pictat numai pentru mine,Gogol şi Goethe au scris numai pentru mine,Bach a compus numai pnetru mine.Cum aceasta este un paralogism,iar pe deasupra şi o teribilă infamie,sunt în fond mereu nefericit. Chiar dacă citesc o carte,am totuşi sentimentul şi înţelegerea că aceasta către mine a fost scrisă,numai pentru mine.

By the end of the twentieth century Interpol was ranking art crime as one of the world’s most profitable criminal activities, second only to drug smuggling and weapons dealing. The three activities were related: Drug pushers were moving stolen and smuggled art down the same pipelines they used for narcotics, and terrorists were using looted antiquities to fund their activities. This latter trend began in 1974, when the IRA stole $32 million worth of paintings by Rubens, Goya, and Vermeer. In 2001, the Taliban looted the Kabul museum and “washed” the stolen works in Switzerland. Stolen art was much more easily transportable than drugs or arms. A customs canine, after all, could hardly be expected to tell the difference between a crap Kandinksy and a credible one.

Tot ce-i la modă mi-a repugnat întodeauna.Probabil că sufăr de ceea ce am numit egoism artistic,în privinţa artei vreau totul numai pt mine,vreau să-l am singur pe Schopenhauer al meu,pe Pascal al meu,pe Novalis al meu şi pe mult iubitul meu Gogol,vreau să posed numai eu singur aceste produse de artă,aceste agresiuni artistice geniale,vreau să-i am eu singur pe Michelangelo,Renoir,Goya.

O louco não é o homem que perdeu o juízo, mas sim o homem cujo juízo suplantou tudo o resto. O louco é aquele que vê causas em tudo, e essas causas remontam a outras causas, e a outras ainda mais distantes, e cada uma dessas causas suscita uma dúvida ou ramifica-se imparavelmente. O Diabo continua a rir-se. O outro caminho que podemos seguir é aquele que silencia e que aquieta os demónios. Não foi por acaso que Bosch ou Bruegel ou Goya pintaram o Inferno como uma amálgama de corpos lancinados e pungidos, de bocas abertas, gritando, implorando e rugindo. São as vozes dentro da nossa cabeça, aquelas que não se calam quando tentamos abarcar o infinito. Não fomos feitos para saber tanto, nem tão pouco. Fomos feitos para aprender a silenciar essas vozes que nos enlouquecem. No fundo, nem precisamos de Deus. Precisamos de alívio. Deus, Alívio. Pouco importa o que lhe chamam.

Ordinary language fixes the difference between handmade images like Goya's and photographs by the convention that artists "make" drawings and paintings while photographers "take" photographs. But the photographic image, even to the extent that it is a trace (not a construction made out of disparate photographic traces), cannot be simply a transparency of something that happened. It is always the image that someone chose; to photograph is to frame, and to frame is to exclude.

Аз, Лоренцо Касамарес... С подписа си удостоверявам, че противно на човешкия си облик, всъщност съм, незаконнороден син на шимпанзе и орангутан. Замислих пъклен план да се присъединя към християнската църква, за да опозоря Светата инквизиция.

One might think of the discovery and conquest of the farthest ends of the earth, the expanses of space, the labyrinthine recesses of the soul, and the depths of the self. And it is part of the dialectic of modernity that these depths are characterized, not only by positive values such as love, constructive desires, and gaiety, but also by the yawning abysses of horror, fear, and destruction. Conquest is always accompanied by destruction, the optimistic mood of discovery by the anxiety of existence.

Так уж устроен человек. Он жрет олья подрида и восхищается Веласкесом, горит огнем вдохновения и валяется в грязной постели уличной девки, которой платит за любовь пять реалов, рисует адских духов и обдумывает, как бы содрать с Давила на тысячу реалов больше за портрет.

Götz Bergander, son of Dresden, eyewitness to its suffering, and the first objective historian of its destruction, summed up succinctly but tellingly: What began as routine led to an inferno and left behind a signal. What seemed capable of achievement only on paper—the coming together of favorable circumstances for the attacks—was suddenly an accomplished fact. But wasn’t that what the supporters of area bombing had always wanted? Too late came the question of whether they had really wanted it.Or, as the painter Goya—also no stranger to horror—expressed it with even more economy: “The sleep of reason brings forth monsters.

В этих краях было принято, чтобы женщины из состоятельных семей ежегодно объявляли себя больными и на неделю, на две ложились в постель, а друзья и знакомые всячески баловали их, навещали, приносили им подарки. В приданое каждой уважающей себя барышни входила парадная постель, которой пользовались только в этих случаях.

As you wish. But I felt several personal items here while I was a guest at the house party, so if you don’t mind, I’ll fetch those before I leave.” That would give him an excuse to find her room and make her listen. “Very well.” As Jackson headed for the door, Stoneville called out, “Your room is in the west wing, isn’t it?” Jackson halted to eye him warily. “Yes. Why?” “You may not know that there’s a shortcut through the south wing.” The marguess stared steadily at him. The family resided in the south wing. “Indeed, I would love your opinion on a piece of art. I’m thinking of selling it, and you might know of a buyer. It’s a fine military painting by Goya hanging right next to Celia’s door, if you’d care to take a look on your way past.” He couldn’t believe it-Stoneville was telling him how to find Celia’s room. “Just remember,” Stoneville added, “if you should happen to run into anyone, explain that I wanted your opinion about some art.” “I appreciate your faith in my judgment, my lord,” he said. “I will certainly take a look at that painting.” Stoneville’s gaze hardened as he stood. “I trust that you’ll behave like a gentleman while you’re passing that way.” He bit back a hot retort-his lordship was one to talk. But the fact that the man was helping him with Celia was a small miracle, and he wasn’t about to ignore that. “Yes. A perfect gentleman.” “Good. I’ll hold you to that.

А настоящей женщине так и надо отстаивать себя, как показывает этот самый Франсиско. Надо прихорашиваться и следить, чтобы гребень ловко сидел в волосах, чтобы чулок был туго натянут, надо рассчитывать, как получше грабить мужчин, и самим не давать себя особенно грабить, надо остерегаться, чтобы лицемер инквизитор не стал громить тебя с кафедры и не спихнул тебя с престола.

The studio was immense and gloomy, the sole light within it proceeding from a stove, around which the three were seated. Although they were bold, and of the age when men are most jovial, the conversation had taken, in spite of their efforts to the contrary, a reflection from the dull weather without, and their jokes and frivolity were soon exhausted. In addition to the light which issued from the crannies in the stove, there was another emitted from a bowl of spirits, which was ceaselessly stirred by one of the young men, as he poured from an antique silver ladle some of the flaming spirit into the quaint old glasses from which the students drank. The blue flame of the spirit lighted up in a wild and fantastic manner the surrounding objects in the room, so that the heads of old prophets, of satyrs, or Madonnas, clothed in the same ghastly hue, seemed to move and to dance along the walls like a fantastic procession of the dead; and the vast room, which in the day time sparkled with the creations of genius, seemed now, in its alternate darkness and sulphuric light, to be peopled with its dreams. Each time also that the silver spoon agitated the liquid, strange shadows traced themselves along the walls, hideous and of fantastic form. Unearthly tints spread also upon the hangings of the studio, from the old bearded prophet of Michael Angelo to those eccentric caricatures which the artist had scrawled upon his walls, and which resembled an army of demons that one sees in a dream, or such as Goya has painted; whilst the lull and rise of the tempest without but added to the fantastic and nervous feeling which pervaded those within. Besides this, to add to the terror which was creeping over the three occupants of the room, each time that they looked at each other they appeared with faces of a blue tone, with eyes fixed and glittering like live embers, and with pale lips and sunken cheeks; but the most fearful object of all was that of a plaster mask taken from the face of an intimate friend but lately dead, which, hanging near the window, let the light from the spirit fall upon its face, turned three parts towards them, which gave it a strange, vivid, and mocking expression. All people have felt the influence of large and dark rooms, such as Hoffmann has portrayed and Rembrandt has painted; and all the world has experienced those wild and unaccountable terrors - panics without a cause - which seize on one like a spontaneous fever, at the sight of objects to which a stray glimpse of the moon or a feeble ray from a lamp gives a mysterious form; nay, all, we should imagine, have at some period of their lives found themselves by the side of a friend, in a dark and dismal chamber, listening to some wild story, which so enchains them, that although the mere lighting of a candle could put an end to their terror, they would not do so; so much need has the human heart of emotions, whether they be true or false. So it was upon the evening mentioned. The conversation of the three companions never took a direct line, but followed all the phases of their thoughts; sometimes it was light as the smoke which curled from their cigars, then for a moment fantastic as the flame of the burning spirit, and then again dark, lurid, and sombre as the smile which lit up the mask from their dead friend's face. At last the conversation ceased altogether, and the respiration of the smokers was the only sound heard; and their cigars glowed in the dark, like Will-of-the-wisps brooding o'er a stagnant pool. It was evident to them all, that the first who should break the silence, even if he spoke in jest, would cause in the hearts of the others a start and tremor, for each felt that he had almost unwittingly plunged into a ghastly reverie. ("The Dead Man's Story")

education and money. I go to church with the kids for the same reason Genie and I play our grandchildren classical music and litter the floors and chairs all over our home with open art books. Jack, age three, eats his lunch with a big Goya book propped in front of him asking for the

Cliff swallows come back to Capistrano Mid-March. It takes them 3 weeks to fly 7,000 miles from Goya, Argentina.

Goya’s full motto for his etching is, ‘Imagination abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters: united with her, she is the mother of the arts and the source of her wonders.

February 10: With Joe DiMaggio’s help, Marilyn is released from Payne Whitney. Ralph Roberts picks Marilyn up. She sits in the backseat with Dr. Kris, and Marilyn berates Kris for betraying her trust. Marilyn is admitted to Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center for three weeks of recuperation. Roberts remembers Dr. Kris saying, “I did a terrible thing, a terrible, terrible thing. Oh God, I didn’t mean to, but I did.” Marilyn’s friend, the photographer Sam Shaw, writes from Paris to Marilyn’s 444 East 57th Street address, offering her a room at his home. “We would have called during the recent turmoil but didn’t know where you were. . . . There are some great art shows at this moment in Paris. Come over. An especially big Goya show of his prints. Marvelous impressionist show etc. and a pip of a Kandinski [sic].

Dhoondta phirta hoon main, ai Iqbal, apney aap ko aap hee goya musaafir, aap hee manzil hoon main. (O Iqbal, I go about everywhere looking for myself As if I was the wayfarer as well as the destination.)

The sleep of reason produces monsters.

Annie Tulloch changing herself into a watercolor miss indistinguishable from any other woman felt wrong. Her reasons for doing so felt worse, like destroying a vivid Goya painting to sell a common gilt frame.

«El sueño de la razón produce monstruos»

Dhoondta phirta hoon main, ai Iqbal, apney aap ko Aap hi goya musaafir, aap hi manzil hoon main.

Tragedy, in our times, is politics.

Goya believed that many of the follies of mankind resulted from the ‘sleep of reason’. There are always people telling us what we want, how they will provide it, and what we should believe. Convictions are infectious, and people can make others convinced of almost anything. We are typically ready to believe that our ways, our beliefs, our religion, our politics are better than theirs, or that our God-given rights trump theirs or that our interests require defensive or pre-emptive strikes against them. In the end, it is ideas for which people kill each other. It is because of ideas about what the others are like, or who we are, or what our interests or rights require, that we go to war, or oppress others with a good conscience, or even sometimes acquiesce in our own oppression by others. When these beliefs involve the sleep of reason, critical awakening is the antidote. Reflection enables us to step back, to see our perspective on a situation as perhaps distorted or blind, at the very least to see if there is argument for preferring our ways, or whether it is just subjective. Doing this properly is doing one more piece of conceptual engineering.

Pero cuando se habla, no se mira. Los charlatanes nunca ven nada.

Because they are rich in antioxidants and are eaten nearly every day in the region, these fifteen foods are considered keys to Okinawan vitality: Tofu Miso Tuna Carrots Goya (bitter melon) Kombu (sea kelp) Cabbage Nori (seaweed) Onion Soy sprouts Hechima (cucumber-like gourd) Soybeans (boiled or raw) Sweet potato Peppers Sanpin-cha (jasmine tea)

ticklers bearing down on Kim Perkins, David Goya pissed off at them.

china eyes and furry countenance confront the nymph’s large eyes—gray eyes that now are black, for she with controlled agitated glance explores the insect’s face and all’s a-quiver with significance. It is Goya’s scene of the tame magpie faced by crouching cats. Butterflies do not need home advice. As though the admiring nymph were patent-leather cricket singing loud or gnat-catching garden-toad, the swallow- tail bewitched and haughty,

There was a sign on the wall of the squad room in capital letters that read “GOYA KOD.” This acronym reminded detectives to “Get Off Your Ass, Knock On Doors.” Occasionally, but rarely, people might come to the police with information, but they tend to be more cooperative when interviewed at their residence or stores.

Aun Aprendo

Please allow me to wax philosophical. The purpose of eyesight, as well as insight for that matter, is for you and I to be in awe of not just creation itself but of the very One who created it. I will confidently propose that this is the purpose behind creation. Consider this: Evolution cannot explain purpose. It can only explain function. Science can explain how and why you and I function. It might even suggest your function within society. However, science alone will never give you the answer to your ultimate purpose for being on this Earth. “Let’s suppose you go to an art museum. While pursuing the halls of art, your eyes are directed to a certain painting. You become fixated on that painting. It is beautiful. The painting is so mesmerizing and beautiful that you are taken with the image it conveys. You begin to speculate on the story behind the painting. You become emotional and even shed a tear as you stare at it in wonder. For a brief moment in time you become immersed in the essence of this work of art. What is happening here? The one who designed and created the painting did so in order to perhaps bring about an emotional response from the viewer. You didn’t look at the painting and wonder about the chemical makeup of paint or the composition of the canvas mat or what type of device was used to apply those chemical compounds to the mat. You didn’t measure the dimensions of the frame. No. The painter gave that painting a purpose. While the painting itself is remarkable and beautiful, the ultimate purpose of it is to direct you to the one who created it. We give honor to Rembrandt, Monet, Goya, Van Gogh, and Picasso. Why does evolution deny that we give honor to the One who designed, created, and gave beauty to you and me, or to any other created thing? For sure, some evolutionists will try to say that the method the grand Creator used in His creation was evolution but will continue to ignore any mention of His creative hand and minimize other accounts such as the evidence for the origin of life in Scripture. They suppress the truth as they give high honor to their evolutionary theories that they guard with defiance. “The appearance of design isn’t just a common sense factor; it comes from a scientific explanation to which I have spoken here tonight. “Each one of you has the ability to hear, read, study, and think on everything that goes into your mind. While we do well to consider objective theory, we still must then decide for ourselves what it is we are going to believe. We are not just lab rats responding to stimuli. We have the ability to reason, love, express emotions, think deeply on matters, and create things—not just as an evolutionary function but from our innate giftedness and developed talents. “Give much consideration to what is true. Consider what is splendid and beautiful and magnificent. Think on things that are right or lovely or worthy of your admiration. Reflect on those things, not just as some facts of science but on the effect these things have on your very heart and soul. There is a word for those thoughts and feelings that penetrate deep within the depths of your soul. The word is visceral. No other creature on this privileged terrestrial ball has this ability. Visceral feelings are not merely a product of our DNA or the chemical and electrical impulses within our brain. Evolution offers no explanation for these deeply rooted expressions of artistic and creative thoughts and ideas. These things come from our Creator. May we not merely skim the surface of wisdom and knowledge without ever going deep. These things are meant to propel you to a deeper awareness of the world around you. They are even meant to propel us to the eternal realm.

Es conmovedor pensar que "los prófugos", los "reos", los sacrílegos, los desdichados amantes víctimas de la estupidez y la siniestra moral de su tiempo, fundaron la primera escuela que existió en Goya. El amor sólo puede inspirar gestos de amor.

three paintings I recognize. The first is Ary Scheffer’s, Francesca da Rimini painting showing a couple in lust. The second painting is John Collier, depicting Lilith with a snake wrapped around her body known as a demoness for thirst and revenge[KW1] . The third painting is of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son but if I remember it correctly, it is argued that the body being devoured looks like a female instead of male.

Nadie podría vivir recordando todo el tiempo. El olvido es también una cura.

Impressionists, Cubists, and Surrealists who had stunned the world between 1870 and 1960 by entirely redefining art. VAN GOGH… SEURAT… PICASSO… MUNCH… MATISSE… MAGRITTE… KLIMT… KANDINSKY… JOHNS… HOCKNEY… GAUGUIN… DUCHAMP… DEGAS… CHAGALL… CÉZANNE… CASSATT… BRAQUE… ARP… ALBERS… This section terminated at one last architectural rib, and Langdon moved past it, finding himself in the final section of the library. The volumes here appeared to be dedicated to the group of artists that Edmond, in Langdon’s presence, liked to call “the school of boring dead white guys”—essentially, anything predating the modernist movement of the mid-nineteenth century. Unlike Edmond, it was here that Langdon felt most at home, surrounded by the Old Masters. VERMEER… VELÁZQUEZ… TITIAN… TINTORETTO… RUBENS… REMBRANDT… RAPHAEL… POUSSIN… MICHELANGELO… LIPPI… GOYA… GIOTTO… GHIRLANDAIO… EL GRECO… DÜRER… DA VINCI… COROT… CARAVAGGIO… BOTTICELLI… BOSCH… The last few feet of the final shelf were dominated by a large glass cabinet, sealed with a heavy lock. Langdon peered through the glass and saw an ancient-looking leather box inside—a protective casing for a massive antique book. The text on the outside of the box was barely legible, but Langdon could see enough to decrypt the title of the volume inside. My God, he thought, now realizing why this book had been locked away from the hands of visitors. It’s probably worth a fortune. Langdon knew there were precious few early editions of this legendary artist’s work in existence. I’m not surprised Edmond invested in this, he thought, recalling that Edmond had once referred to this British artist as “the only premodern with any imagination.” Langdon disagreed, but he could certainly understand Edmond’s special affection for this artist. They are both cut from the same cloth. Langdon crouched down and peered through the glass at the box’s gilded engraving: The Complete Works of William Blake. William Blake, Langdon mused. The Edmond Kirsch of the eighteen hundreds. Blake had been an idiosyncratic genius—a prolific luminary whose painting style was so progressive that some believed he had magically glimpsed the future in his dreams. His symbol-infused religious illustrations depicted angels, demons, Satan, God, mythical creatures, biblical themes, and a pantheon of deities from his own spiritual hallucinations

A Carlos, como a su padre, y como a todo buen Borbón, lo que le gustaba era cazar (no en vano se le conocía con el sobrenombre de Carlos «el Cazador») o si acaso asistir a una o dos misas diarias. Cuando llovía, al parecer se dedicaba a oficios más manuales, como la relojería, algo de lo más insólito en un monarca, y también se dedicaba en sus momentos más creativos a martirizar los oídos de sus cortesanos con la práctica de un violín Stradivarius. A Goya le tocó ejercer de crítico en algunos de sus conciertos privados, aunque afortunadamente era sordo y se limitaba a asentir con la cabeza mientras el rey torturaba su instrumento.

Me imagino a Goya haciéndome el honor de leer estas páginas —como usted, que las está leyendo ahora— y sonriendo con ácido cinismo con lo equivocado que estoy al interpretar su vida y su obra. Malinterpretando su mensaje. Me imagino uno de sus Caprichos sobre este libro: una estampa de un burro tecleando en su ordenador. Y abajo, inscrito con su mágica caligrafía: «Se creen que me entienden».

been disturbed. This is why Rembrandt or Vermeer or Poussin or Chardin or Goya or Turner had no followers but only superficial imitators.

of a theory scientific rather than artistic in its origin. We see him in an early portrait an imitator of Goya, but without Goya’s wit or spontaneity. In his large composition we see him produce a work as cleverly eclectic and as sophisticated as some Italian pictures of the seventeenth century. And lastly we have his purely theoretic experiments which are unintelligible to the eye and the mind. Forgetting that these are meant to represent anything, we see very little abstract beauty of colour or design in most of them, although the still life is an exception. They depress us as if they were diagrams of a science about which we know nothing; and whereas in “La Femme au Pot de Moutarde” a human form is obscurely discernible, it seems, but for the obscurity, to be commonplace. He has every right to make his experiments, and they may perhaps prove useful to other artists in the future. He is, in fact, such a scientific experimentor as Paolo Uccello might have been if he had had no original talent of his own, or if in him a slight original talent had been overlaid by intellectual curiosity.

Others he never could persuade; his attempts to do so angered them, producing a flood of vituperation and acrimonious mockery. A witty Italian summed it up in a burlesque interview with Picasso, who is here supposed to be speaking: “In art, the mass of people no longer seek consolation and exaltation … but whatever is new, odd, original, extravagant, or scandalous. I myself, since Cubism and even before, have satisfied these masters and critics with whatever bizarre extravagances passed through my head, and the less they understood the more they admired me. By amusing myself with all these games, rebuses, and arabesques I became famous, famous very quickly. And for a painter fame means selling, making money, making a fortune, growing wealthy. So today, as you know, I am famous and I am rich. But when I am quite alone I have not the courage to think of myself as an artist in the ancient, splendid sense of the word. Giotto and Titian, Rembrandt and Goya, were true painters; I am only a public entertainer who has understood his times and to the utmost of his powers has exploited the silliness, the vanity, and the stupidity of his contemporaries. Mine is a bitter confession, more painful than it may seem; but it has the merit of being sincere.

The sleep of reason breeds monsters.

What each of Goya’s monstrous animals really is, is a thought, a thought that can assail us when we are exhausted and depleted. Often, these night-time thoughts are an internalization of the most awful messages we’ve ever heard from other people (probably those we grew up around): you are no good, you disgust me, don’t you dare to outsmart me. The owl with outstretched wings might be shrieking: you will never achieve anything. The furry beaked bat might be hissing: your desires are revolting. The lynx-like thing at the bottom looks on with judgementalness: I’m so disappointed in what you’ve become. During the day, when we feel so-called monsters hovering as we talk to a colleague or have dinner with friends, we can fend the animals off with rational arguments: of course, we’ve done nothing wrong, there is no reason to keep apologizing, we have the right to exist. But at night, we can forget all our weapons of self-defense: why are we still alive, why haven’t we given up yet? We don’t know what to answer anymore.

Finalmente, la España y la Antiespaña, el Espíritu y la Materia, el Bien y el Mal, la Verdad y la Mentira, llegaron a las manos como en el entrañable lienzo de Goya, en el que dos labriegos se tunden a palos. Sobre cuál de las dos Españas era la mala y cuál la buena, si es que alguna era buena, hay diversidad de opiniones. Lo que está fuera de toda duda es que cada una se creía la buena y estaba convencida de que la otra no tenía derecho a la vida.

Hacía lobby ante el Congreso para maquillar leyes con términos vagos que le permitieran, a él y a sus jefes, cubrirse las espaldas y mover droga dentro y fuera del país. Si se presentaba algún problema recurría a los vacíos que él mismo había ayudado a crear.

Каліцтво - це відчуженість. Людина, що втратила руку - це зовсім не та сама людина, що доти, тільки без руки. Це людина, яка замість руки має відсутність руки, зовсім інший орган, на який заборонено дивитися, про який не варто згадувати. Щоб не завдати болю. Бо так само, як у тілі замість руки виросла відсутність руки, так і в душі замість чогось виросла відсутність чогось - зболений, роз'ятрений і вразливий орган.

Великі будинки потрібні для того, щоб уникати одне одного.

...хтозна, можливо, хвороба співчуває хворому, якого терзає, - але вона не прийшла сюди зі співчуття...

Mano mėgiamiausi poetai? Karalius Dovydas, Karalius Saliamonas, Ekleziastas; Lamartine, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Lautreamont, Valéry, Marie Noël, Jouve; Angelus Silesius, Goethe, Hölderlin, Nietzsche, George, Hofmannsthal, Rilke, Traki, Langgasser; Leopardi, Campana, Montale; San Juan de la Cruz, Garcia Lorca, Blake, Keats, Hopkins, Yeats; Donelaitis, Maironis, Putinas, Aistis (pirmos 4 knygos). Bet mano preferencijos nuolat kinta Mano mėgiamiausi tapytojai? Piero della Francesca, Benozzo Gozzoli, Botticelli, Tiziano, Piero di Cosimo, Magnasco; Claude Lorrain, Georges de la Tour, Watteau, Fragonard, Chardin, Manet, Renoir, Soutine, Duffy, Chagall, Sérafine; Brueghel (Senasis), Memling, Hobbema, Vermeer; Dürer, Lucas Cranach (Senasis), Kokoschka; Gainsborough, Palmer; El Greco, Velazquez, Goya, Dali; Galdikas, Samuolis, Vizgirda, Valeška, Gudaitis.

presidential elections in American history. Jackson's candidacy established a new political party: the Democratic Party. Composer Franz Schubert and painter Francisco Goya died in 1828. Jules Verne, Leo Tolstoy, Henrik Ibsen, and Dante Gabriel Rosetti were born that year. So was Joshua Laurence Chamberlain of Maine. Chamberlain grew up to be president

El puto mundo, siempre cambiante.

Así es la vida. Y así es la muerte. Cuando te toca, te toca. Como ya he comprobado en más de una ocasión.

A lo mejor hay ocasiones en que es preferible un espejismo inofensivo a una realidad fatal.

—Vamos, Goya: por un lado, una mujer atractiva y de clase alta, con interés por la moda; y por el otro, según nuestras suposiciones, un tipo sin mucha educación y sin ningún tipo de «distintivo» social… No suena muy compatible. ¿No crees? A menos que se trate de una telenovela mexicana o venezolana

Nadie podría vivir recordando todo todo el tiempo. El olvido es también una cura.

He adored Goya. The madness leapt off the walls.

¿A qué Dios rezamos nosotros, soñadores? ¿Qué vinimos a hacer al mundo los traicionados?

Las palabras, a veces, son mechas que prenden rápido, y el silencio puede ser un dique que contenga una riada".

Las palabras, a veces, son mechas que prenden rápido, y el silencio puede ser un dique que contenga una riada.

America’s biggest Hispanic-owned food company, Goya Foods, began in 1936 as a specialty distributor of basic products, such as beans, to Hispanic immigrants. Today it is one of the USA’s fastest-growing food companies, introducing all sorts of Americans to a (wide) range of Hispanic-inspired food items. ‘We like to say we don’t market to Latinos, we market as Latinos’,

Goya Foods and Quorn are examples of marketers thinking about the category needs their brands could satisfy, and worrying less about who within the category is going to buy their brand. This thinking widened their potential markets and created sales opportunities that would have been missed if they had stuck to their ‘target’ markets.