|Federico GarcÃa Lorca|
GarcÃa Lorca in 1914
|Born||Federico del Sagrado CorazÃ³n de JesÃºs GarcÃa Lorca
5 June 1898
Fuente Vaqueros, Granada, Andalusia, Spain
|Died||19 August 1936
Near Alfacar, Granada, Spain
|Occupation||playwright, poet, theatre director|
|Movement||Generation of ’27|
|Parent(s)||Federico GarcÃa RodrÃguez
Vicenta Lorca Romero
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.
There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.
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.
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
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.
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.