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
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.
I am the immense shadow of my tears.
As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.
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.
The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.
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.
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.