You have the blood of a poet. You have that and always will. You show, in the middle of savage things (that I like), the gentleness of your heart, that is so full of pain and light.
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.
When you've seen New York, you've seen almost every city in North America. Everything is uniformly the same.
To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.
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.
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.
The important thing in life is to let the years carry us along.
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.
The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.
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.
Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.
New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets lost, but I recognise that New York is the world's greatest lie.
Look at the longing, the anguish of a sad fossil world / that cannot find the accent of its first sob.
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
If I told you the whole story it would never end...What's happened to me has happened to a thousand woman.
I will always be on the side of those who have nothing and who are not even allowed to enjoy the nothing they have in peace.
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.
I can't listen to you. I can't listen to your voice. It's as though I'd drunk a bottle of anise and fallen asleep wrapped in a quilt of roses. It pulls me along – and I know I'm drowning – but I go on down.
Don't ask me any questions. I've seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.
But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.
Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.
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.
And I tell you that you should open yourselves to hearing an authentic poet, of the kind whose bodily senses were shaped in a world that is not our own and that few people are able to perceive. A poet closer to death than to philosophy, closer to pain than to intelligence, closer to blood than to ink.
A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.