Cancíon del Jinete

Córdoba
Lejana y sola

Jaca negra, luna grande,
y aceitunas en mi alforja
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba

Por el llano, por el viento
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me está mirando
desde las torres de Córdoba.

¡Ay qué camino tan largo!
¡Ay mi jaca valerosa!
¡Ay, que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Córdoba!

Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Duende.

The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation.

Everything that has black sounds in it, has duende.

This ‘mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains' is, in sum, the spirit of the earth, the same duende that scorched the heart of Nietzsche, who searched in vain for its external forms on the Rialto Bridge and in the music of Bizet, without knowing that the duende he was pursuing had leaped straight from the Greek mysteries to the dancers of Cadiz or the beheaded, Dionysian scream of Silverio's siguiriya.

Federico García Lorca

24.february: An art that envelop and reveal, that opens up and shows what is hidden behind the weil. Then the same struggle exists also today, as for thousands of years ago;
peoples desolateness in a world abonded by God, a world gone off the tracks because we are unable to interpret the signs.

Og tenk på det, aldri er man noe sted uten å være i et navn, uten å være i et område med et navn, på et fjell med et navn, i en by med et navn - alltid befinner man seg i et eller annet ord som er funnet på av andre, som man aldri har sett og som forlengst er glemt, et navn som en gang ble skrevet for første gang. Vi er alltid i ord.

Cees Nooteboom: Omvei Santiago

If it should be true that reality exists
In the mind: the thin plate, the loaf of bread on it,
The long-bladed knife, the little to drink and her

Misericordia, it follows that
Real and unreal are two in one: New Haven
Before and after one arrives or, say,

Bergamo on a postcard, Rome after dark,
Sweden described, Salzburg with shaded eyes
Or Paris in conversation at a café.

This endlessly elaborating poem
Displays the theory of poetry,
As the life of poetry. A more severe,

More harassing master would extemporize
Subtler, more urgent proof that the theory
Of poetry is the theory of life.