FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.

To see you naked is to recall the Earth.

I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.

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.

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

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

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.

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.

Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.

New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.

I will always be on the side of those who have nothing.

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.

I'm satisfied. I am progressively making my life and my name in the surest and purest manner. If I catch on in the theater, as I think I will, all the doors will gladly open wide for me.

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

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.

The poem, the song, the picture, is only water drawn from the well of the people, and it should be given back to them in a cup of beauty so that they may drink - and in drinking understand themselves.

Seville is a tower full of fine archers.... Under the arch of the sky, across the clear plain, she shoots the constant arrow of her river.

Damned, damned be the rich! May not even their fingernails be left!... I'm sure that they are going to Hell head-first.

A dead man in Spain is more alive than a dead man anywhere in the world.

Love is the kiss in the quiet nest while the leaves are trembling, mirrored in the water.

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.

Devoutly the teachers point out huge fumigated domes; but beneath the statues there's no love, no love beneath the eyes set in crystal. Love is there, in flesh ripped by thirst, in the tiny hut struggling against the flood; love is there, in ditches where snakes of hunger wrestle, in the sad sea that rocks dead gulls, and in the darkest stinging kiss under pillows.

Death, vicious death, Leave a green branch for love.