“I closed my window because I do not want to hear the crying, but behind the gray walls that crying is heard no more. There are very few angels that sing, a few barking dogs; one thousand violins come in the palm of my hand. But the weeping is an immense dog, crying is an immense angel, the weeping is an immense violin, tears Gag wind. And more is not heard that cry. “
That Spaniard who could get excited at the sound of a guitar, the man who had gone through the pain of a fierce emotional crisis, the poet of the progressive ideas too, on a hot summer in August, that of 1936, had been thrown into an anonymous pit. The Civil War that raged in his homeland had also collected its tribute of blood.
“I am a Spaniard full and I cannot live out of my geographical limits, but those who hate you Spanish for Spanish and nothing else, I am a brother to all and I find execrable man who sacrifices himself for a nationalist idea, Abstract , by the mere fact of loving their homeland with the blindfold. the Chinese feel good the next Spanish wicked. Canto Spain and feel to the core, but the first is that I am a man of the world and a brother to all. for this reason, I do not think the political frontier. “
Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca, born in 1898, in Fuente Vaqueros, and his parents were smallholders. E ‘, however, their transfer to Granada – Andalusia – what determines the opening of its precious treasure of literature. In Madrid, in a very short time, he knows a lot of latitude mental that he stimulate – like those of Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali – transforming the son of a small landowner, in the tip of the literary avant-garde of his country.
“It starts the crying of the guitar. Break of dawn cups. The weeping of the guitar begins. It is useless to silence her. It is impossible to silence her. Monotonous cries cries as water. As the wind cries on the mountain.”
He did not ask to be born, and even to be born male or female, Spanish or French, heterosexual or homosexual, but in 1929, deeply depressed, he opens his intimate existential dimension to his family and to his friends, confessing its homosexual. Often, it happens that a trip can smooth out the contrasts, and restore the way of what is considered normal and desirable, but the trip to New York by Garcia Lorca does not had that effect, indeed, it had authenticated its specificity existential, of free man in all his choices.
“What I enclose me in these moments of sadness? Ouch, who cuts my golden woods and flowery! What I read in the mirror silver moved that the aurora provides me with the water of the river? “
Garcia Lorca, he also visited Cuba, but in 1931 he decided to return in the new democratic Spain, where he was commissioned by the government to make known his literary work across the nation. The man who did not ask to be born, he live intensely this period of his life, even improvising actor himself, but he also wrote what is most beautiful he has left us: Bodas de sangre, Yerma and La casa de Bernarda Alba. That trilogy written, depicts the landscape of his childhood, in a concise way, three-dimensional, where the trees have life and the sea shells are capable of singing. If you visit Spain, you can lay flowers where a gunshot – the neck, in an August night – was supposed to do Frederick silent . A memorial between Alfacar and Viznar, the remember of an night, above the death that was watching him from the towers of Cordoba.
“They took me a shell. Inside sings a sea of paper. My heart fills with water with a fishes of shadow and silver. They took me a shell.”