Federico Garcia Lorca Quotes

The day that hunger is eradicated from the earth there will be the greatest spiritual explosion the world has ever known. Humanity cannot imagine the joy that will burst into the world.

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.

Every step we take on earth brings us to a new world.

I've often lost myself, in order to find the burn that keeps everything awake

Love is the kiss in the quiet nest while the leaves are trembling, mirrored in the water.

The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.

Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.

I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads

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.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.

In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

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.

The day we stop resisting our instincts, we'll have learned how to live.

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.

In our eyes the roads are endless. Two are crossroads of the shadow.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them. Snow, rain, and mist highlight, drench, or conceal the vast towers, but those towers, hostile to mystery and blind to any sort of play, shear off the rain's tresses and shine their three thousand swords through the soft swan of the fog.

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.

I put my head out of my window and see how much the wind’s knife wants to slice it off. On this unseen guillotine, I’ve placed the eyeless head of all my desires.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.

I'll always be happy if they'd leave me alone in that delightful and unknown furthest corner, apart from struggles, putrefactions and nonsense; the ultimate corner of sugar and toast, where the mermaids catch the branches of the willows and the heart opens to a flute's sharpness.

Damned, damned be the rich! May not even their fingernails be left!.

.. I'm sure that they are going to Hell head-first.

My poetry is a game. My life is a game. But I am not a game.

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.

A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.

What's the furthest corner? Because that's where I want to be, alone with the only thing that I love.

The gitano is the most distinguished, profound and aristocratic element in my country, the one that most represents its Way of being and best preserves the fire, the blood and the alphabet of Andalusian and universal truth.

Seville is a tower full of fine archers.

... Under the arch of the sky, across the clear plain, she shoots the constant arrow of her river.

If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.

The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone

The moon carries the masks of meningitis into bedrooms, fills the wombs of pregnant women with cold water and, as soon as I'm not careful, throws handfuls of grass on my shoulders.

To see you naked is to recall the Earth.

The theater has to impose itself on the public, and not the public on the theater... The word "Art" should be written everywhere, in the auditorium and in the dressing rooms, before the word "Business" gets written there.

Oh honey, there's nothing new on this earth when it comes to what men and women do in the dark. First love is when you learn. So you've learned that love can open you up like spring sun on a wee primrose. Good. Remember that. You know how to love.

Old women can see through walls.

At first glance, the rhythm may be confused with gaiety, but when you look more closely at the mechanism of social life and the painful slavery of both men and machines, you see that it is nothing but a kind of typical, empty anguish that makes even crime and gangs forgivable means of escape.

Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.

Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.

We're all like the little sailor. From the harbors we hear the strains of accordions and the murky soapy noises of the docks, from the mountains we receive the dish of silence that the shepherds eat, but we don't hear more than our own distances. And what distances without end and without doors and without mountains!

Those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.

New York is a meeting place for every race in the world, but the Chinese, Armenians, Russians, and Germans remain foreigners. So does everyone except the blacks. There is no doubt but that the blacks exercise great influence in North America, and, no matter what anyone says, they are the most delicate, spiritual element in that world.

In the garden I will die. In the rosebush they will kill me.

The dancer's trembling heart must bring everything into harmony, from the tips of her shoes to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the ruffles of her dress to the incessant play of her fingers.

Pero yo ya no soy yo Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. But now I am no longer I, nor is my house any longer my house.

Just as the light and weightless vegetation of saltpeter floats over the old walls of houses as soon as the owner gets careless, so the literary vocation springs up in you.

I'm afraid to be on this shore a trunk without limbs, and what I most regret is not to have flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my suffering.

I have often lost myself in the sea, ears full of newly cut flowers, tongue full of love and agony.