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… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
There is no true love save in suffering, and in this world we have to choose either love, which is suffering, or happiness. And love leads us to no other happiness than that of live itself and its tragic consolation of uncertain hope. The moment love becomes happy and satisfied, it no longer desires and… Continue reading Miguel de Unamuno
Arbole, Arbole . . . Tree, tree dry and green. The girl with the pretty face is out picking olives. The wind, playboy of towers, grabs her around the waist. Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets and big, dark capes. “Come to Cordoba, muchacha.” The girl won’t listen to… Continue reading Federico García Lorca
The afternoon, grown wild with figs and hot murmurs, swoons and falls… And black angels were soaring through the western sky. Angels with long tresses and hearts of olive oil. — Federico García Lorca, “The Feud,” Romancero Gitano. (Agebe, March 2006) Originally published 1928.
Through women you will see the entire universe. — Miguel de Unamuno, Our Lord Don Quixote: The Life of Don Quixote and Sancho, translation, (Princeton University Press; First Paperback Edition edition, July 21, 1976) Originally published 1905.
Friendship, you know, is as mysterious as love or any other state of this confusion that we call life. In fact, I have sometimes suspected that the only thing that holds no mystery is happiness, because it is its own justification. — Jorge Luis Borges, from “Unworthy,” Brodie’s Report. Translation by Norman Thomas di Giovanni… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
Romance Sonambulo Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Under the gypsy moon,… Continue reading Federico García Lorca