Людибиографии, истории, факты, фотографии

Федерико Гарсиа Лорка

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Federico Garcia Lorca

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Фотография Федерико Гарсиа Лорка (photo Federico Garcia Lorca)
   

День рождения: 05.06.1898 года
Возраст: 38 лет
Место рождения: c. Фуэнте-Вакерос, Испания
Дата смерти: 19.08.1936 года
Место смерти: Вискар, Испания

Quotes of Federico Garcia Lorca

Испанский поэт и драматург

  • ⋅The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extrahuman architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die. /Federico Garcia Lorca
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  • ⋅In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The day that hunger is eradicated from the earth there will be the greatest spiritual explosion the world has ever known. Humanity cannot imagine the joy that will burst into the world. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Only mystery allows us to live, only mystery. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night. I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair. If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master, never let me lose what I have gained, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The duende....Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child's saliva, crushed grass, and medusa's veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅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. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Angel and Muse approach from without; the Angel sheds light and the Muse gives form (Hesiod learned of them). Gold leaf or chiton-folds: the poet finds his models in his laurel coppice. But the Duende, on the other hand, must come to life in the nethermost recesses of the blood. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas. Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅To see you naked is to recall the Earth. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅I've often lost myself, in order to find the burn that keeps everything awake /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅New York is a meeting place for every race in the world, but the Chinese, Armenians, Russians, and Germans remain foreigners. So does everyone except the blacks. There is no doubt but that the blacks exercise great influence in North America, and, no matter what anyone says, they are the most delicate, spiritual element in that world. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look; look at them; look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅A nation that does not support and encourage its theater is - if not dead - dying; just as a theater that does not capture with laughter and tears the social and historical pulse, the drama of its people, the genuine color of the spiritual and natural landscape, has no right to call itself theater; but only a place for amusement. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The theater has to impose itself on the public, and not the public on the theater... The word "Art" should be written everywhere, in the auditorium and in the dressing rooms, before the word "Business" gets written there. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅I put my head out of my window and see how much the wind’s knife wants to slice it off. On this unseen guillotine, I’ve placed the eyeless head of all my desires. /Federico Garcia Lorca
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  • ⋅Death laid its eggs in the wound /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Night of Sleepless Love The night above. We two. Full moon. I started to weep, you laughed. Your scorn was a god, my laments moments and doves in a chain. The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand. Dawn married us on the bed, our mouths to the frozen spout of unstaunched blood. The sun came through the shuttered balcony and the coral of life opened its branches over my shrouded heart. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The Little Mute Boy 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.) Translated by William S. Merwin /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅...I am the immense shadow of my tears /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅Ditty of First Desire In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love.) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself. A heart. And at the evening's end I wanted to be my voice. A nightingale. Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love. /Federico Garcia Lorca
  • ⋅The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords. /Federico Garcia Lorca
Goss Malone
Omalone1 16.07.2019 07:48:16
Women think that all men are equal, and this is their strength, men think all women are different - it destroys them.




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