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“Verde que te quiero verde”
― Federico García Lorca

“Every song
is the remains
of love.

Every light
the remains
of time.
A knot
of time.

And every sigh
the remains
of a cry.

- Every Song”
― Federico García Lorca

“…I went away from your side,
in love without knowing it.
Now I don’t know how your eyes
look, nor your hands, nor your hair.
I know only the butterfly
of your kiss on my forehead.”
― Federico García Lorca

“Quixote shines from Lorca and Picasso,
From Dalí and El Greco,
From the gloomy 'View of Toledo.'
He was born before Cervantes.”
― Dejan Stojanovic

“MADRE: Pues es loca de no haber gritado todo lo que mi pecho necesita. Tengo en mi pecho un grito siempre puesto de pie a quien tengo que castigar y meter entre los mantos.”
― Federico García Lorca, Bodas de sangre

“Hay almas a las que uno tiene ganas de asomarse, como una ventana llena de sol.”
― Federico García Lorca

“I’ll emerge, with wings, from the banner I am, bird
that never alights on trees in the garden�
I will shed my skin and my language.
Some of my words of love will fall into
Lorca’s poems; he’ll live in my bedroom
and see what I have seen of the Bedouin moon. I’ll emerge
from almond trees like cotton on sea foam”
― Mahmoud Darwish

“«Y yo dormiré a tus pies
para guardar lo que sueñas.
Desnuda, mirando al campo,
como si fuera una perra,
¡porque eso soy! Que te miro
y tu hermosura me quema»”
― Federico García Lorca, Bodas de Sangue

“Entre los hombres hay algunos que tienen la preciosa facultad de adivinar el alma de las cosas. Se llaman artistas.”
― Federico García Lorca, El Maleficio de la Mariposa: Primera obra teatral de Lorca

&±ô»å±ç³Ü´Ç;³Û²¹ÅŸ²¹°ùı³ú
Büyük bir aynanın altında
Ä°nsan mavidir!”
― Federico García Lorca

“Dünya'nın bu dramatik anında ²õ²¹²Ô²¹³Ùçı kendi halkıyla aÄŸlamalı ve onunla gülmelidir.”
― Federico García Lorca

“Oh amapola roja que ves todo el prado,
Como tú de linda yo quisiera ser!
Pintas sobre el cielo tu traje encarnado
Llorando el rocío del amanecer.

Eres tú la estrella que alumbra a la aldea,
Sol del gusanito buen madrugador.
¡Que cieguen mis ojos antes que te vea
Con hojas marchitas y turbio color!

¡Quién fuera una hormiga para poder verte
Sin que se tronchara tu tallo sutil!
Yo siempre a mi lado quisiera tenerte
Para darte besos con miel del abril.

Pues mis besos tienen la tibia dulzura
Del fuego en que vive mi rara ±è²¹²õ¾±Ã³²Ô;
Y hasta que me lleven a la sepultura
Latirá por ti este corazón...”
― Federico García Lorca, El Maleficio de la Mariposa: Primera obra teatral de Lorca

“Lorca’s Spain: A Homageâ€�

Beginning with olive trees.
Shadows.
Beginning with roosters.
Crystal.
Beginning with castanets & almonds.
Fishes.
This is a homage to Spain.
This mists dogs.
This silences rubber.
This is Saturn.
Beginning with yellow.
Eclipse.
Beginning with needles.
Insomnia.
Beginning with baskets.
The Moon.
Who is naked? The imagination
(wrote Lorca) is seared.
This is a homage to water.
Beginning & end.”
― Jerome Rothenberg, The Lorca Variations

“Federico García Lorca, poeta e intelectual muy vinculado a la República, había llevado el teatro a través de su compañía La Barraca a las zonas más desfavorecidas de los pueblos españoles. Nada más comenzar la contienda, había sido fusilado sin más contemplaciones. No existía delito; tampoco acusación. Quizás, la falta que había cometido y que le había costado la vida no estuviese aún recogida en los libros de leyes: la incomprensión. Muchos hombres y mujeres con nombres menos conocidos, descansaban en fosas comunes diseminadas por los caminos de España. (p. 117)”
― Manuel Ramos Ramos, Tres cipreses: Novela

“Seconds later, a girl emerged from the stairwell, her feet barely tapping the floor. I stepped back, shocked. She wasn't a fifty-year-old lady. She wasn't my daughter. She wasn't Robert either. She was fifteen, if that. Her cheeks were the color of brick. I opened the door. She was wearing a rain jacket, and her hands were hidden in her sleeves.
"Sorry," she said. "The subway was so slow. I got out at Ninety-Sixth Street and walked."
Her voice was deeper than I would have thought. She took off a hat that looked too big for her, all flaps and flannel. She was long-necked, reddish-haired, and freckled, but olive in the skin, as if she'd been shaded. Her eyes were light blue, like ancient sea glass. She took off her sneakers without using her hands and then leaned over and placed them neatly by the door. They were flat as pancakes, with shoelaces that didn't match. She was wearing socks with white bugs on them. She curled her toes when she saw me looking.
"You know they eat them in Thailand?" she said. "Oven-baked with green curry."
"Socks?" I asked.
"No," she said and the sides of her cheeks lifted into a smile. "Crickets on my socks.”
― Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

“Those are juice glasses," she said. I smiled.
"Right," I said. "This is how we drank it in Baghdad."
I put down the steaming glass in front of her and wrapped the oven mitt around the bowl of bamia and brought that too, smelling it on the way.
"Heaven," I said.
I watched her as she ate until I caught myself.
"I haven't made this in years," I said.
Lorca lifted her shoulders, cocked her head, asking why.
"I don't know," I said. "I should have. There's a saying in Arabic: Bukra fil mish mish. 'Tomorrow, when the apricots bloom.' Or, in other words, maybe tomorrow. I kept thinking that. I'd do it tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow."
I was thinking of Lorca, of cooking again. But I thought of Joseph too. No more tomorrows with him.”
― Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

“We didn't have wooden stakes in the ground. We didn't have burning brushwood either. We didn't have fish from the Tigris or the Euphrates.
We did have fresh red snapper from Citarella, which I butterflied down the back; tamarind paste from Fairway; hand-skimmed olive oil from Tunisia. We had a small fire when Victoria's sleeve brushed past the stove. And when I threw a glass of water at her, we had a fit of laughter so overpowering that I had to help her into a chair.”
― Jessica Soffer, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots

“You foreigners, you're all the same! You come here to find out about Fredrico's death, yet you don't know a damn thing about what really happened in Granada in 1936." - Gerardo Ros”
― Ian Gibson, Death of Lorca